


Come the Winter (Come the Storm)

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Series: Penumbrae [1]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Captain America (Comics), Iron Man (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cold War, F/M, Gore, Historical AU, Hurt Steve, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Mass Death, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark, an unremarkable day laborer in the gulag in Izhma, has been deemed too much of a  liability to be allowed to remain in Soviet control. Steve Rogers, one of SHIELD's top operatives, is sent undercover into one of the USSR's many internment camps with the specific instructions to retrieve him. </p>
<p>The plan was simple, which, in hindsight was the first indication that everything was about to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Cold War AU. It will not be one hundred percent historically accurate (to be honest conditions were far, far worse than depicted here). We’d like to thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed it please do leave feedback.
> 
> [Now with fanart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/836595), courtesy of LP. She's amazing, so go take a look :)

Steve roused to the first strike of the morning bell, and sat in the dark silence until the other twenty rows of pest-ridden cots began to creak and shift. Even in the low lighting, he could see the slow plumes rising from his neighbors’ beds with each breath.

The ice on the window, an inch thick in some places, chipped away beneath his thumbnail until he had filed away a hole large enough to see out. The yards were still dark as pitch, but as the bell grew tired and died away, he could make out the faint sound of the warder barking orders. A shadowed group of men in black coats came stomping through the snow toward the barracks.

It wouldn’t be remarkable, except for the rifles they carried over their shoulders, and the staunch postures that suggested a greater purpose than rousing the orderlies to empty the latrines. They were coming for him today—which meant the plan hadn’t fallen apart. Yet.

Steve threw aside his blanket, quickly putting on the worn black jacket and coat, each emblazoned with fading white patches with the number S-501, and made his way toward the shoe pile as he would any morning. He mostly stayed silent. The room was a quiet buzz of tension. They had all heard the trains arriving late last night, and the guards would be announcing this morning whether they were here to drop off or pick up.

Two days after his interment, the prisoner Stepan Rogov would be transferred from the Kotlas transit camp to his permanent, higher security work camp in Izhma. Less than two weeks after that, he and a second, unremarkable prisoner would attempt an escape, only to perish in the Russian wilderness.

 

Steve had always been able to tell, when there was a mission waiting in the wings for him. Part of this was the fact that he was part of a small group of special forces in very high demand and, in this day and age, there was _always_ a mission. But another part was the not-so-subtle change in behavior of his commanding officers.

For one thing, no one ever called him in for early morning training the week before a dangerous mission. He wasn’t sure if this was because they wanted him to get his rest, or if it was out of respect, just in case he didn’t come back. Considering they only ever did it before the extremely dangerous missions, Steve strongly suspected the latter.

It was no surprise when Fury called him in to the briefing room that morning, and Steve wasted no time in getting down to business.

“You have a mission for me, Sir?” he asked. Fury stood beside the conference table, and Steve stepped up beside him, settling into parade rest.

“I do,” he said. Fury slid two of the files on the table forward. Steve flipped them both open. He recognized the man in the photo immediately as Howard Stark, someone he’d spent quite a bit of time on reconnaissance with during the war. His wasn’t a face Steve ever expected to see again.

“Howard Stark is dead,” Steve said slowly. Fury knew this, of course, and Steve was curious as to why he would bring it up. “Plane crash. I thought it was an accident.”

“It was, as far as we know,” Fury agreed, “but this mission doesn’t have to do with Howard. What we’re interested in is her.” He tapped the file, _Maria Stark_. Steve blinked in surprise at the last name and the marriage certificate that accompanied it. He had known Howard for years, and never once had he mentioned or indicated that he had a wife. Steve scanned the contents of the file. There were photos of Howard and Maria, separate and together, though the most recent was still over a decade old. Fury cleared his throat to regain his attention and said, “Or more specifically, her son.”

Steve’s eyes snapped up, and he saw that Fury was extending another file. He accepted it and flipped it open. The face staring back at him was young—hardly a teenager. Looking at the date of birth, he could see that the photo was simply outdated—again by several years—which, for SHIELD, meant that the man was very, very hard to find.

“Maria Stark returned to her country of birth before the war, and her son went with her,” Fury explained.

“And Howard stayed?” Steve knew the answer, considering that he’d worked with him personally and seen him on American soil. He couldn’t imagine ever being able to allow his wife and son to leave the country without him, but somehow, with Howard, it wasn’t a difficult picture for Steve to paint.

“We’re lucky he did,” Fury said. “Maria and Anthony Stark were living in the Czechoslovakia when we lost all contact.”

“And now you’ve found them?” Steve prompted. He was beginning to see where this was going. Maria was beautiful—he could see why Howard might have been drawn to her. As for Anthony… He bore a strong resemblance to his father, but that wasn’t what drew Steve's eye. He had the handsome and assured demeanor one would expect from Howard’s son, but also… to be willing to leave a life in America behind to watch after his mother was no small deed. He could see hard-set determination in him, even in a person so young.

“So to speak,” Fury said. “Last week we received intelligence saying that Maria Stark passed away not long ago. Her son was sent to an internment camp some time before, due to unknown circumstances.”

“That’s…specific,” Steve said. Nick shrugged, clearly just as irritated by their lack of intelligence. “And we’re going to go get him?”

“Not us. You. We can’t risk a nuclear war. Not for one man. But Tony Stark is a genius. Maybe more so than his father. The good kind, if he’s working for us. As long as he’s in Soviet hands…” Fury let the statement hang, but Steve understood the implications anyway. Especially now, in this Cold War. Howard Stark had given them the atomic bomb. If what Fury said was true, and his son was even smarter than him, Steve could only imagine what the man was capable of.

“Is he working for them now?”

“As a day laborer, according to our intelligence. They don’t know who they have, and we’re going to make damn sure they never learn.” Fury handed him a manila envelope. Steve slid his finger beneath the seal and it opened cleanly. “We’re sending you in—you’ll have ten days from the day you infiltrate. That’s your window. All the details are inside that folder. Good luck, soldier.”

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said.

“And Rogers?” Fury paused, fixing him with a stare that sent a chill through him. “Whatever happens, Tony Stark is _not_ to fall back with the Soviets. Even if they don’t know who he is, it’s a liability I don’t like having. So you get him out of there. At _any and all cost, get him out of Soviet control_. Lives are at stake.” Steve hesitated. He knew what the man was implying. When it came to operations like this, SHIELD was willing to make sacrifices for the greater good. Still, Steve needed to be sure.

“Understood?” Fury demanded. The expression he wore eliminated any doubt from his mind. Steve’s gaze hardened. He didn’t agree with the method, but he was a solider, and he’d been given his orders. When the time came, he’d make a call. Steve nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I understand.” Steve thumbed through the file needlessly, more to hide how intently he was staring at the photo than anything else, and ignored his uneasiness at being sent off to a Soviet gulag. He had a vague idea of the kind of conditions they would have. He knew no one in their right mind would go willingly without at least some trepidation, and that certainly didn’t make him feel any better. Steve glanced back through the file one more time. Idly, he wondered what Stark had done to get himself arrested.

He didn’t suppose it mattered, in the end. He had his orders.

“Dismissed,” Fury said. Fury stood, gathering himself to head back to his office, and Steve was out the door in an instant. He knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised to find Bucky waiting for him outside, but it still made him jump when what he’d thought was just another fixture on the wall moved to follow him down the hall.

“New orders?” Bucky asked. He had a breezy, casual way about life, which is probably why Steve very nearly let him pull the file from his grip for a peek. But Steve had known Bucky for years, and he knew enough of his tricks to catch him in the last moment and pull the file out of reach.

“You know I can’t let you read this,” Steve said. He knocked Bucky’s arm out of the air. Buck gave him a crooked grin, but didn’t try again. “I don’t know why you try.”

“Gotta keep you on your toes,” Bucky quipped. Even though there was nothing to suggest it, Steve knew he was worried, if only because Steve would have been, had their positions been reversed. “You leaving soon?” he asked. When Steve was hesitant to answer, he added, “It’s not like I won’t notice once you’re gone.”

It was a good point.

“Tomorrow,” Steve said.

“We should go get a drink then,” Bucky said. He nudged Steve's side. “I bet no one will notice. What do you say?” To be honest, all Steve wanted to do was make an early night, but admitting that was a sure way to get Bucky to drag his ass all over base _and_ the city.

“Can’t drink before an assignment,” he said instead, because that was a reasonable excuse.

“For company, then,” Bucky lowered his voice invitingly, and with a vague gesture, added, “or you and I could—”

“We can’t!” Steve interrupted a little too quickly. Bucky instantly adopted a sly look, that was just borderline lewd.

“That didn’t stop yo—mff,” Steve slapped a hand over Bucky’s mouth, crowding him into the wall. Bucky, of course, just made a face, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis, and Steve rolled his eyes.

“I thought you had a girl?” Steve asked. Bucky _licked his hand_ , and Steve pulled his back with a grimace, making a show of wiping it on Bucky’s jacket and then, because it probably wasn’t helping either of them, put a little distance between them.

“It’s non-exclusive,” Bucky shrugged. “Besides, she’s on assignment. Don’t know when she’ll be back.” He tried to make it sound casual, but Steve could hear the concern in his voice all the same. Steve had never met her and had only found out about her recently, but in the time Bucky had known her, he’d been visibly happier. That was all Steve really needed to know.

“Well,” Steve said, “I’d like to say the offer is tempting, but…” He made a show of looking Bucky up and down, completely unimpressed.

“Wow, you’re a piece of shit, Rogers!” Bucky said. Steve ducked out of the way when he came at him. He sidestepped, putting himself behind Bucky, and gave him a shove.

“Go home, Bucky. I’ll be fine,” Steve said as Bucky stumbled. Bucky turned back to him. With a smile that said that he was convinced that was true, if only because he wanted it to be, he threw both hands up in a placating gesture.

“Your loss.”

 

“S-501.” Steve answered the call with silent attention, and tucked the corner of his gloves into his sleeve. The warder, a tall, beady eyed man with a dark stare and darker disposition, wasted no time with formalities. “Come.” He proceeded to list another set of numbers as well. Everyone in the room kept their heads down, praying silently they would not be called for transport.

The work here was light, and the ill were treated better than most camps. This is where workers came to live. Other camps were not so optimistic. Each person stared after him and the others called, silently thankful they weren’t on the list; and silently praying for those who were.

Steve ignored them all, standing back ramrod straight against the wall until after the last number had been called and the final man had filed in beside him. The guards didn’t need to urge him to follow, though they did regardless with no small amount of joy for their jobs.

The outside air was a cold slap to the face, burning his lungs with each breath. They were led through the freshly fallen snow, past where the early workers had already begun to clear the drifts and ice in exchange for an extra meal and an hour of rest.

The only sound from the group was the quiet crunch of snow beneath their boots, and the irregular huff of air from those older or more tired workers who, unlike Steve, were not in peak physical condition and didn’t appreciate the exercise. When they reached the rail yard they were split off into groups, directed to different trains and different cars by number. Most of the men seemed to be going about business as usual, but occasionally Steve would catch sight of a face in the crowd that looked stricken with fear, as though the transfer would be the end of him.

Steve was lead to the back-most car and made to wait in line as the guards cleared them for transport. He tried not to glance between the guards, wondering which, if any of those present, were US spies. Someone with authority had to be, since there was no way Fury could guarantee his plan to succeed without it.

From here, Steve could just see the sharp, steel spikes beneath the car. Harmless at rest, but any prisoner trying to escape through the bottom during transit would be shredded. The machine-gunner who was idly smoking on the roof of the car served the same purpose for those trying to escape out the top.

One of the warders finally stepped forward, undoing the lock on the metal door and yanking it open. The warder didn’t so much as flinch when a moment later one of the men by the door fell from the car with a solid thump. Steve stared, wondering why he hadn’t even attempted to catch himself, when a second body joined the first.

A mixture of horror and disgust washed over him, and he averted his gaze. A third thud alerted him of another body, frozen to death or starved sometime during transit and thrown carelessly out to make room. No matter how many years he’d been in the military, or how many camps he’d liberated during the war, he would never be used to the sight of a corpse, and he hoped he never would be.

As a pair of orderlies stepped up to drag the men away, the warder started reciting prisoner’s numbers. He supervised as they loaded into the car one by one.

The car had already been packed full with people, and none of the other prisoners seemed interested in moving aside to give him space to stand. Steve bit back his irritation and climbed inside as best he could, forcing himself into the tight and suffocating space as the car door slammed shut behind him. Even the metal car was warm with this many people inside, so long as he wasn’t next to the door where the wind whistled through the cracks. Steve found that he didn’t mind the close quarters if it meant the cars would be warmer—a dull, numbing cold rather than the sharp, burning sting that warned of frost bite he couldn’t prevent. Steve had always hated the cold, and the ride to Kotlas had been far less comfortable, even if there had been more space to stand.

With the door closed there was a little more space to move, and he leaned himself against the wall, blinking in the low-light while his eyes adjusted. Only one other person from his barrack had joined him in this car. He was Yugoslavian, from what Steve had gathered, and he never spoke—Steve wasn’t sure if this was because he didn’t speak the language or because he simply had nothing of importance to say.

The same wasn’t true for the rest of the inhabitants of the car. Many were swapping stories or asking after old friends and relatives from other camps. Remarkably, the vast majority seemed content with their incarceration, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder how many of the actually deserved to be here.

He shook the thought away. He couldn’t help them all. Not without compromising his own mission.

A man beside him jostled him, pushing Steve away from the wall, and he almost pushed back. But then he caught sight of the tired, frail looking man, and he decided against it. While the rest of the people around him glared and cursed, Steve simply stepped aside as best he could.

“Damn it all,” the old man said. His back hit the door with a solid thump, and he let himself slide down until he was seated on the floor with his legs stretched through the gaps in between the legs of the men standing in front of him. The rest of the crowd around him took advantage of the extra space, but if he was made claustrophobic by the crowd looming over him, he gave no indication. “Izhma is not a place I ever wanted to be again.”

“You’ve been there before?” Steve stepped closer so that he could hear and be heard over the din in the car.

“Sure.” He coughed violently, just as the car listed to the left as they went around a turn. By the time everyone had settled, he had recovered, “Got moved six months ago. And now they send me back, after I’ve already washed my hands of the place.”

“Do you know a man named Stark? He would have been there at the time,” Steve prompted. He pursed his lips in consideration, but shook his head.

“Never heard of ‘im. Not a very big camp, either. You’re sure he’s there?” he asked. Steve paused, but decided it was best to not draw attention to himself by pressing the issue.

“No,” he said simply. The old man seemed uninterested in his answer anyway, having already dropped his head back and closed his eyes, and Steve wasn’t sure that any of the others had been listening from the start, so he left it at that.

Steve put a hand out to the wall to steady himself as the car went around another turn. He wasn’t completely worried—their intelligence had said that Tony had been in the camp in Izhma for nearly a year, and for lack of something better to go on, he would believe it. Still, much could happen in the time between when intelligence was sent and when it was received, and it wasn’t unheard of for an organization, even one as competent as SHIELD, to obtain false intelligence.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing when the train came to a jerky stop. He only knew that there was no way they had arrived at Izhma so early. The old man seemed to agree, and started grumbling about delays, as though he had anywhere else to be. He leaned forward and inch, just enough to let the doors be thrown open behind him, and swung around to face the orderly who’d opened it.

“What’s the hold-up?” he grouched. The orderly ignored him.

“Everyone out!” For a long moment, no one moved. None of them wanted to go stand in the cold when they knew they would just be piling back into the cars again rather than going inside the buildings to warm up. Finally, the old man hopped down.

“What’sa matter, boys? Afraid of a little fresh-fallen snow?” He tromped off into the drift. The rest flowed after, like a damn broken, and soon the snow was packed tightly around the car, tramped down beneath their boots.

“Line up by fi-i-ves,” the guard shouted. He waved them over away from the cars. So they were stopping to do a count, and then possibly pick up or drop off prisoners for transfer. The prisoners were slow to obey orders, legs stiff from lack of use and, even more devastating, the cold.

While the warders went through and counted the men by fives, an orderly was standing reading from the list of numbers for those that would be continuing on to Izhma. They were written onto a piece of plywood, which lasted much longer in the weather than paper and could be wiped clean for reuse. Little whips of snow peeled away from the ground, stinging their faces with every gust of icy wind.

The warders, being the worst counters Steve had ever known, came up one man short and began their count again. The men around him shifted on their feet, grumbling about the cold. They were anxious to get inside, though it would not be much better. Steve didn’t care for any of this, and listened only for the list. They were coming up on his number.

“…471, 480, 483, 499, 504 …”

The warder had finished counting, and motioned for them to move, but didn’t come any closer. The guards on duty weren’t supposed to approach prisoners with their guns in hand. It made everyone jumpy, and every once and a while, they would get someone stupid enough to make a go for it. For a moment, Steve couldn’t believe what had happened. That couldn’t be right. He should have been on that list.

Steve tried to make his way to the car anyway, ignoring the guard shouting for him. One of the guards pulled away from the rest, shouting obscenities and demanding he got back in line. When he raised his rifle, Steve hesitated. The orderly with the list was already ushering the last of them into the cars, impatient to get out of the cold himself.  
A flurry of movement five rows back drew the guards’ attention. Steve barely had enough time to realize that one of the inmates was making a run for it—barely long enough for the man in question to grab two handfuls of the chain-linked fence—before two shots rang out, and the body lurched forward and to the side. Steve tore his eyes away, breaking off toward the car in the distraction. He stepped up to the men checking numbers calmly, like he belonged there.

The orderly with the list grabbed his shoulder, pulling the patch into clear view. His eyes flicked down to the board in his hands, and for a moment Steve couldn’t breathe. If he wasn’t on that list, everything was over before it had begun. Then the orderly released his jacket, nodded, and urged him forward. Relief hit him like a wave, and Steve climbed into the car without a word.

Once inside, Steve followed the gaze of the rest of the prisoners to a woman standing in the snow, rifle still half-raised to shoot. She had such a dark look of irritation of her face that Steve almost wanted to look away.

“Who is that?” Steve asked, although he had an idea already. There was a lot of talk of the specialists that were trained specifically to recapture escaped prisoners 'for the safety of the nation'. They were deadly, and paid specifically to keep political prisoners and prisoners of war from threatening whatever skewed sense of national security had landed them in the gulags in the first place.

Of those specially trained individuals, Steve had only heard fearful rumors of one of them, the fiery haired woman who never failed to capture, and kill, her targets. The Black Widow, they called her, because if she caught her target, it was certain death.

“Romanova,” someone said, equal parts awed and disgusted, “Thank god I’m transferring. Wouldn’t want to end up like him.” Steve had only a moment to turn back, to see the man still clutching the fence in cold hands, before the warder slammed the car door slammed shut.

“What a fool,” someone mumbled behind him.

Steve couldn’t help but agree.

 

They arrived at Izhma in the dead of night, and even though the guards would likely take another couple of hours to get all the inmates assigned to barracks, not a single one of them thought that they wouldn’t have work as usual tomorrow. It would be a very long day, but nothing they hadn’t been through before.

An orderly pulled the door to the car open and quickly stepped aside to let them out. He instantly went to stand by the cluster of guards and wardens, all looking as unenthusiastic about being in the cold as the prisoners were.

Steve recognized one of the men—a warden, Grigori—from the files Fury had given him to memorize before he shipped out. He was scowling at the lot of them as they filed out of the car. While he made no effort to help assist the orderlies in frisking the men as they stepped out, he certainly made sure to retrieve anything of value that the orderlies found.

Steve removed his gloves, holding them open in one hand, and opened his jacket with the other. He had nothing to hide that they could find in a simple frisk. The orderly was young and obviously untrained. He gave a cursory search without even bothering to check inside the gloves and missing one pocket entirely before he waved Steve on.

“Line up by fi-ii-ves,” Grigori shouted. The prisoners didn’t need to be told. All they wanted was to get inside and go to bed.

By some grace of God the guards didn’t miscount, and found exactly the number of prisoners they’d been expecting. The guards split them into blocks of five by five, assigning them off to their appropriate barracks, and as soon as the gates clanged shut behind them the blocks burst into a frenzied rush to get inside, swarming into the darkness of the yard like ants.

There was no light in the barracks—it was well past lights out—but it was warmer than outside and sheltered from the wind. Steve couldn’t help but glance at some of the nearer sleeping faces in the darkness. It wasn’t as though he’d expected to see Stark in one of the bunks beside his own, but he couldn’t help the little feeling of disappointment when all he saw were worn and tired strangers.

A few men were squinting suspiciously at the newcomers in the darkness and others still were mumbling curses at being woken. Steve grabbed the farthest empty bed from the door, taking the excuse to scan faces on the way. No one familiar caught his eye, and the orderlies were stamping impatiently by the door waiting for the lasts of them to choose a bed, so just this once Steve took off his boots without putting them by the heater—knowing he’d regret the decision in the morning but also knowing that it would be better than angering the orderlies less than an hour after arriving—and climbed into a bunk.

The bed was—relatively—warm and comfortable after a full day of transit, and his whole body ached from staying in the same stiff position for hours on end, so it wasn’t all that surprising that only a few moments after putting his head to the pillow, Steve was asleep.

 

 

Steve woke the next morning to the sounds of men preparing for the workday. Plenty of men were still asleep, mostly new arrivals like himself, and it took Steve longer than he wanted to admit to realize that he’d slept straight through the morning bell.

His mind was still foggy with sleep, but he was awake enough to put on his freezing, stiff boots—and hell, he really should have put them by the heater after all—and roll out of bed to go stand by the stove while the gang boss and his assistants mulled about making plans for the day. There were a lot more empty beds than there had been the night before. The boss must have sent someone to bring their food back rather than driving the whole gang down to the kitchens. Usually, it was a nice gesture for new arrivals. They didn’t have to get up as early, and the work day would be a little easier on them, but Steve only found himself cursing the decision, or at least his failure to wake up and offer to go with them. The kitchens would have been his best chance at locating Stark, or at least hearing of him, if he wasn’t in Steve’s gang.

Which, from the sea of unfamiliar faces around him, Steve was nearly certain he wasn’t so lucky.

“You’re new?” Steve turned to the voice, nodding affirmation. The man looked him up and down as though sizing him up.

“Name?” The man demanded. Steve told him.

“Boss wants to talk to you.” He hitched a thumb toward the small semi-circle of men, some of whom Steve recognized from the train, others just as unfamiliar as the rest, gathered around who Steve could only assume was the gang boss. Steve nodded, stepping reluctantly away from the heater, and the messenger slipped into his place the moment he did.

The boss eyed him when he stepped up, but waited for a few more stragglers to join them before he muttered, in an accent that was distinctly non-Russian (German, maybe, or possibly Polish) so thick that Steve had to concentrate to understand him, “I am Bogdan. You can call me Boss… you have questions, ask them, not me.” He indicated two men, chattering together near the doorway. Steve assumed they were the assistant bosses, but didn’t have time to ask as the man continued, “Talk to them, they'll assign you jobs.”

The missing men chose that moment to return, laden down with bowls of mush for the morning meal, and Bogdan fixed them with an intimidating stare and said, “Jobs first.” He nodded toward the assistant bosses. When Steve glanced over again they were heading their way, obviously not worried about not getting their meals—the boss and assistant bosses were always fed, sometimes even with double portions, and no one complained despite the fact that their seconds came out of someone else’s first.

It didn’t take more than a moment of them sizing him up before they put him in with the bricklayers to carry bricks and mortar. It wasn’t often they had a prisoner in Steve’s shape, but for once he was happy for it, breaking off from the group to get his mush and a ration of bread. He was starving, and the mush wasn’t much more than oats and water without any fat in it, but it was still slightly warm even after being carried through the cold from the kitchen. It was certainly better than nothing. He hadn’t eaten in—Jesus—nearly a day, since the guards didn’t much care whether they starved or not so long as a schedule was kept.

Steve already had his boots on and he rarely bothered to remove his jacket in the night, so when the orderlies came in warning them of roll call in ten, he ignored them, focusing on his breakfast. This gang wasn’t a very friendly bunch, and Steve was happy for it, since he couldn’t see himself staying here long if he wanted to find Stark by the end of the day. And he would locate him by the end of the day—if gang assignments last night was anything to go by, there were only five gangs in Izhma, and only so many places for Stark to be. There was no reason to make friends when he’d be transferring.

When the orderlies arrived again to retrieve them, no one moved, everyone wanting to be the last one out the door and into the cold. Eventually, a few men made their way outside. Steve joined some of the first, and then sat quietly through the muttering and less-subtle cursing while they waited for the stragglers.

“If you didn’t take so damn long we’d be there already,” someone shouted behind them. A few more men finally stepped into the cold, and they closed the barrack doors behind the stragglers. The guards watched, uninterested, as they cursed one another and fell into formation, already dreading the workday and doing what they could to distract themselves from it. The guards didn’t care—so long as they were ready and counted before the gates opened, they could waste all the time in the cold that they wanted.

A few orderlies were already counting, even though they’d just have to start over again when the rest of the gang finally made their way outside, and Steve fell into one of the lines of five toward the front. At least the first ones out were also the first ones inside, although it wasn’t much of a comfort with last night’s fresh-fallen snow piled nearly to his knees.

He scanned the yard for the other gangs, but the metalworkers always left earlier than the rest so that they could fire up the furnaces, at least in Kotlas, and Steve supposed that it would be the same here as well. If Steve’s assignment was any indication, they’d be more likely working on laying bricks. He could only hope they’d be laying foundation _inside_ , rather than stacking walls out in the cold.

Someone’s sharp elbow hit his side, and Steve snapped back to realize that the gates were opening and they were moving forward. He rubbed absently at the aching point, not even bothering to curse him out, and followed after the rest to stay in formation.

The path outside the gates split in two directions, the only difference between them being the state of the snow. To the left, the path the guards were taking them, was well traveled (by the other gangs, no doubt) and the snow had already been packed down or cleared away. The right path was more pristine, with only a few lines of disturbed snow where the trucks had pushed through. Steve thought he could see the curl of smoke rising over the trees in that direction.

A town, then.

He recalled the maps Fury had presented him, mostly rough and hand drawn—and all unique, much to his annoyance—and recalled those that had placed the town of Izhma to the east and the factories to the west of camp. The factory they would be at for the workday was nearly a mile from camp. Steve spent every wind and landmark in the road updating his mental map and taking special note of the guard’s procedure during the trip. They all kept rifles at their sides, and although they weren’t letting their guard down completely, there were plenty of weak points in their security.

En route between locations was probably not the ideal moment to escape, but it couldn’t be ruled out entirely.

When the factory—and it could hardly be called that, being scarcely more than four walls with a large yard and barbed wire fence—came into view, Steve redirected his attention. He noted guard towers—encouragingly lacking—and numerous manned patrols—less encouraging but still workable.

The count while they waited to enter came up accurate, and they still redid the count. Steve figured this was procedure, since few of the veterans complained, and when the doors did open, they were quick to push and shove those in front to hurry inside the compound and toward the large, wooden factory doors.

Steve hesitated in the doorway, scanning for familiar faces. He must have hesitated too long, because someone snarled his number, giving a helpful shove in the direction he should be walking. The older members of the gang didn’t need to be told what to do, splitting off to start mixing the first small batch of mortar but leaving it in the mixer to keep it from freezing too quickly.

Even inside, Steve could see his breath. He found himself absently rubbing his gloved hands together. No one else seemed to be noticing the cold.

“One degree below, no more. Good weather for brick laying.”

“Be better if we could get it warmed up in here,” the assistant boss groused. He was standing over the gang boss, who was busy turning on the boiler. To no avail, judging by their expressions. “We don’t want the mortar freezing before we can use it. That’s a damn waste—hey!”

A group of three, obviously pleased with their find, were pinning stolen pieces of roofing felt over the windows. They glanced up like startled deer at the shout, feigning innocence.

“Where’d you get that?” the assistant boss demanded. They froze, glancing between each other, and one jerked a thumb in the direction of the generator room. The gang boss regarded them calmly. “S’there more?”

“Probably.”

“Go check.” He turned an angry eye on the men crowing around the little corncob stove, snapping: “And the rest of you lugs get to work.”

No one moved—the workday hadn’t started yet, after all, and they wouldn’t budge from the stove for anything less than the morning bell. Steve could only hope the room warmed up soon once the boiler kicked in.

One of the workers was already returning with another roll of roofing felt, and Steve was almost completely sure that they weren’t supposed to be filching materials that weren’t for the work. Still, the assistant boss looked pleased and none of the guards were paying any attention to them, so he figured that if it meant they could be a little warmer while they worked, he wouldn’t comment.

“Fuck!” The gang boss cursed loudly and kicked the side of the boiler with a hardened toe. The metal buckled and made an ugly clang, but nothing else happened. It refused to start. “Piece of shit’s broken again,” the boss said, “One of you, go get Anton. Tell him I'll pay the usual if he can fix it.”

There was a round of dissatisfied mumbling—no one wanted to leave the warmth of the stove, or do anything at all before the work started. Someone mumbled send the new guy, and there was some agreement. Steve figured it would be better to volunteer before he was forced to go anyway, if only to prove that he was willing to work.

“Gang Three,” Boss said, pointing toward the group of metalworkers gathered in the far corner of the warehouse. “Get him and hurry back.” Steve nodded, jogging over to the group and trying to get his blood pumping. They were glaring when he came up to them, probably worried he would be telling them there was yet more work their gang had to do.

A worn looking man with black hair greying at the temples cut him a warning look as he approached and barked, “What?”

“Boiler’s broken,” Steve said. The group seemed to visibly relax when they realized Steve wasn’t coming with a job, and many of them turned disinterestedly away. “Are you Anton?”

“He’s up there,” the old man said. He spit onto the dirty concrete beside him and hitched a thumb toward the top of the scaffolding, where the riveters worked. Steve thought he could see the edge of a knee poking out from one of the scaffolds, but he wasn’t sure.

“What’s he doing up there?” Steve asked before he could think better of it. The work day hadn’t started yet, so there was no reason for it.

“What’s he ever doing anywhere?” he shouted back, hands thrown up in frustration, “Guy’s got a screw loose.”

Steve wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just mumbled his thanks, making his way over to the ladder. The steps were frozen over, with little flakes of ice that made his gloves stick to the rungs as he climbed and the grip on his boots slip with every step.

Anton was staring at him expectantly when he pulled himself up, having probably heard him during his ascent. Steve stalled, recognition hitting him like the icy chill outside and he felt his grip slip slightly in his surprise. He was a well few years older, taller but no broader and much more world-weary, but there was no doubt.

“You’re Tony Stark,” Steve accused. The man started, schooling his surprised expression a moment too late. He realized his mistake a moment later, and didn’t even try to recover. Instead, he glanced over the edge to see if there was anyone else watching, and then leveled Steve with a guarded and very unfriendly look.

“Anton,” Tony snapped. His voice was hushed, barely a whisper. “What the hell are you trying to pull?” He cast another glance downward, as though someone below could have possibly heard.

“Who are you?” he hissed. He didn't bother to verify Steve’s statement. Steve climbed the rest of the way onto the platform and offered a hand, which Tony eyed but didn’t accept, and, in English, said,

“Steve Rogers. I’ve been looking for you.” A strange expression crossed Stark’s face, but as soon as it appeared, it was gone. He was painfully thin in a way that Steve would have blamed on the camps, had he not seen the pictures of Tony young and too thin for his own good. The man in front of him looked tired in a way he hadn’t been in the photos, eyeing him warily.

“Why’s that?” Tony said.

“I’m a Captain in the United States military, Mister Stark. I was sent to get you home,” Steve replied. Tony blinked at him, and barked out an incredulous laugh. Of all the reactions Steve might have expected—suspicion, relief, hell even anger—he had never considered that Tony Stark would actually laugh in his face.

“Well congratulations, Captain. Now you’re a prisoner, too. Well done.” He clapped a few times, and grabbed a few tattered pages by his hip with clumsy, gloved hands, creasing them with a second fold. “No, really, I’m impressed.” He tucked them into the torn lining of his jacket. “As far as rescue missions go, I think this takes the cake.”

“I know you’re skeptical, but you have to trust me. We have a plan, and it’s my job to get you back home, safe and sound—”

“I don’t have a home,” Tony said pointedly in Russian, “and if Howard thinks I’m going back to live with him, he’s sorely mistaken. I’d rather stay here.” Tony must have seen something in Steve’s expression, and damn him if he wasn’t intuitive. “What?” When Steve hesitated, he pressed. “Oh, don’t try to save my feelings, Rogers, tell me.”

“Howard died in a plane crash last year,” Steve said. Tony’s expression remained carefully neutral, and he stayed silent. Steve had almost been expecting him to say good riddance. “Tony, I’m trying to help,” Steve tried.

“Yeah?” he snapped, “What do you want, a medal? And where the fuck were you guys a year ago? Or a few months? Where were you when my mother—” He clammed up just as quickly, anger giving way to resignation. Steve wasn’t surprised, not really, that Tony didn’t trust anyone but himself.

“We only just got intelligence on your location. As I understand it, we lost track of you after Maria-” Tony flinched and cut him a glare, and Steve trailed off.

“Really? And they tell you everything?” Tony said.

“No, but they told me enough.” Steve tried to project something akin to trustworthiness. He was fairly certain it was lost on Tony, but he had to try anyway. “Less than two weeks from now, there will be an empty cargo train three miles South of the Izhma river. It will take us into friendly territory.”

“Those tracks are abandoned, and even if they weren’t, how the _hell_ would you plan on getting out to catch this train?” Tony said. He sounded less angry, more intrigued, but Steve was getting the impression that he had no intention of cooperating.

“We’ll find a way,” he said, “but I’ll need your help.”

“Well, you don’t have it. Even if you _do_ manage to escape, how do you plan on finding the tracks? Or finding your way after that?” Tony demanded. Steve thought of the countless maps and aerial reconnaissance pictures he’d poured over from the mission file. Even now, he could paint each picture as clearly as though it were sitting beside him.

“I know the way,” he said. Stark scoffed.

“You know the _map_ ,” Tony corrected. Steve didn’t bother to confirm, “I won’t be the first to tell you that walking through a blizzard is a lot different than staring at a map from the comfort of your drawing room. Men who’ve walked a path a thousand times get lost in the snow every day—”

The whistle marking the start of the work day startled them both. Steve leaned over the railing to look as the men below grudgingly got up from their resting places by the stove to start in on their work again. He wanted to continue the argument, _make him see reason_ , but it would be no good if anyone grew suspicious, or tried to interrupt and overheard sensitive information. Steve sent Tony one last dissatisfied look, which Tony met with an equally stubborn glare, and said,

“The boiler’s broken. Boss says he’ll pay the usual to have it fixed.” Tony eyed him, nodding only slightly,

“Fine, I’ll fix it," he paused and then added, “and no more English, you’ll get us both shot.” He shook his head, turning away to collect the tools he’d hidden beneath his seat. Steve wanted to say something more, but he was afraid to push his luck and end up on the man’s bad side. Instead, he took note of Tony’s number, 575, and then headed back to his gang.

When Tony showed up a few minutes later, wrench in hand, he looked pointedly in every direction other than at Steve. He tried not to take it personally, but he couldn’t help the disappointment when Tony carefully averted his gaze. Steve let him be, distracting himself by hauling mortar up to the scaffold where the rest of the gang was working on laying bricks.

Later, when the work day ended and the escorts were lining them up by fives, Steve found himself at the front of the crowd, eager to get back to camp. They held them in the yard while the metalworkers were waiting impatiently to be counted and released from the gates.

The courtyard was unnervingly still, with the empty yard, the biting cold, and the moon gleaming on the snow. The guards had already fallen in—three yards away from each other and marching with their guns at the ready. Within the columns of guards stood the black herd of prisoners, and in among them, in a black coat like everybody else, was that man, S-575, whose father had worked on the Manhattan project, who’d tested as a genius almost before he could talk. And now he was here, all gaunt and threadbare, doing odd jobs and drawing blueprints on stolen scraps.

There’s nothing they wouldn’t do to a man.

 

His mission brief had told him that Grigori was not the most powerful man in the Izhma camp, or even the highest ranking of the warders, but he had been assigned to Izhma the longest and seemed to believe that that warranted some amount of respect from the prisoners. What the files hadn’t told him, Steve had only needed to meet the man once to learn. He was a vain, greedy old man, who believed himself far above everyone else and the work they put him too.

Steve had pegged him instantly as a potential mark.

Grigori had a private workplace that stuck out as an awkward extension of the wooden shack the rest of the camp used as an office. The chimney was belching smoke and tar so thickly that it obscured the building behind them, and Steve knew that the warden was in.

The office was warm and welcoming around the acrid scent of smoke. There were a few orderlies, whose jobs were to stoke the stove and keep it hot, playing poker with dog-eared cards on a crate by the door. They glanced up to him, but lost interest just as quickly when they realized he was only another prisoner.

None of the other warders or prisoners with office work spared him a glance, and Steve allowed himself only a second to enjoy the warmth that pulled the ache from his bones before he slipped through into the back room.

When Steve stepped in, Grigori eyed him as though he were a disease. Grigori had the sort of greasy black hair that swept itself back all on its own, and a pair of huge, stark grey eyes. He went back to the papers on his desk, possibly deciding if he should ignore him altogether, before finally setting the clipboard aside and cutting him a glare.  
“What?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation, but frankly, Steve didn’t care. He wasted no time with small talk.

“I want to switch gangs. From Five to Three,” Steve said. The warder scoffed—Steve had expected as much—and turned back to his papers.

“Get out,” he spat, “we don’t pander to wants and wishes, here.”

“I’ll trade for it,” Steve said. That got the warder’s attention. He could see the man was still wary, looking at him as though he were absolute scum. He didn’t expect him to have anything worth a trade, but Steve could also tell that he was too greedy to not at least see what he had to offer.

The warder eyed him for a moment, before motioning for Steve to shut the door.

“What could you possibly have, that—” Steve silenced him by producing the gold tie pin from his pocket, issued to him for the specific purpose of a negotiation like this, and which he had kept hidden in the lining of his sock. From the warden’s expression, Steve wagered he was interested. “Where’d you get that?” he asked.

“Belonged to a friend,” Steve lied. “And now it belongs to you.” The warden paused, and then extended his hand to accept the pin. He turned it over in his hand, saying nothing.

“On record, you moved for behavioral issues,” he said finally, “Collect your things, we’ll put them in holding.”

“In holding?” Steve asked. The warden sent him an oily smirk that made Steve want to crawl out of his skin.

“Well, you’ve been misbehaving.” He ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “That’ll get you a transfer, _after_ you spend a night in the Can.” Steve bit back his irritation—he could see from the warder’s self-satisfied smirk that there would be no deal if he argued. Some men just wanted to be in control. Instead, he nodded, not trusting himself to do anything more, and turned to leave the room.

The two orderlies were shooting him curious glances when he emerged, poorly hidden behind their cards. He brushed past them and out into the cold before he could hesitate. He steeled himself against the wind and cut across the yard in the same path through the snow he’d taken coming out.

One night in the Can wasn’t really a punishment, anyway. The Can was a solitary confinement cell used to punish the prisoners, but it wouldn’t be any different from the barracks if it weren’t for the fact that there was no heater. He’d certainly seen worse, and it would only be a problem if they kept him in for more than a day. It was when he started missing hot meals that the punishment actually started.

No one paid Steve any mind when he returned to the barracks and started piling his things onto his bed. He really didn’t have much—just a jacket, gloves and a hat, an extra pair of boots and a blanket to wrap it all up in. On second thought, Steve decided to put the jacket on, just in case they didn’t confiscate it, so that he would be a little warmer tonight.

The Can in transient camp was all concrete and very cold. Even the bed and blanket couldn’t fight the chill. Steve suspected that this wouldn’t be much different. When two guards arrived, one to collect his things and the other to escort him, the other members of his gang paid a little more attention, but no one made an effort to fight on his behalf.

He didn’t blame them. They’d known him for only one day, after all, and each person was ultimately looking out for themselves. Steve handed over his bundle, and followed after the guard. He paid special attention to the layout of the camp, and the areas which he had yet to see. In a way, a night in the Can would be useful.

At least now, he had time alone to go over the layout of the camp and formulate a plan.

 

 

Steve swiped a hand across the dirt floor when the sound of sharp footsteps reached him, erasing all evidence of the map he’d spent all morning constructing. He’d only seen it once, but after last night Steve was confidant he knew the layout by heart. Steve pushed himself up from the floor and onto the bed, just as the tumblers on the door clicked and light flooded into the cell.

“Come on, work as usual,” the guard said. He shoved the bundle of Steve’s belongings into his arms. Steve accepted them and the guard waved him toward the barracks. The man didn’t bother to make sure Steve followed, certain that escaping the cold would be incentive enough, and Steve hurried toward his quarters after him. He didn’t expect that Tony would be very happy to see him, but it had to be done.

Steve saw Tony the second he walked in to the barracks, with his back turned to the door. He’d taken one of the floor beds in the corner of the room, with the bed above his occupied by a wiry looking young man scarcely older than Steve was. He was leaning over the top of the bunk, speaking earnestly to Tony—or at him, perhaps, since the genius paid him no mind. The guard led Steve to the opposite end of the room, where he stopped in front of another bed, the top bunk of which was empty but obviously lived in, and addressed the bottom bunk’s inhabitant, an older man with a very crooked nose.

“You’re being transferred to Gang Five,” the guard told him. Steve had expected some irritation at the switch, but instead the older man looked relieved. The guard hung around for only a moment. As soon as he realized there wouldn’t be a fuss, he walked away, having decided that he had better things to do with his time.

“Thank God.” He leaned in closer to address Steve privately. “It better have been worth it, comrade. I hear this gang is up for the Community Development job.”

“Community Development?” Steve asked. The man nodded earnestly, already stuffing his belongings into a worn grey pillowcase.

“Off site, clearing snow and digging holes to put up posts and barbed wire,” he said. Steve had heard of that kind of work before, but he hadn’t been around long enough to see it. The barbed wire had to be put up before any other work was done, because the guards couldn’t risk the prisoners escaping. It was rotten work, mostly, because it was months of digging in the frozen ground with nowhere to get warm. Half the time the ground was so solid that your pickaxe just bounced off, and all you could do was keep swinging to try and keep warm.

“Rotten work, for rotten luck. But maybe you won’t get the assignment. Doesn’t much matter to me anymore. I guess I can thank you for that.” He shot Steve a sly grin, and hopped off the bed. As Steve watched him collect his boots, he felt a hand fall on his shoulder, spinning him around and shoving him back against the bed. Steve’s hand came up to grip the wrist, only managing to halt himself when he saw who had grabbed him.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Tony hissed. He spoke perfect Russian, with no indication of an accent, and Steve wondered if it was his first language.

“Bad behavior,” Steve said. The hand on his shoulder tightened, and he amended, more quietly, “You know why.” Steve was fully aware of the stares they were receiving, so he didn’t say any more, dropping his hand. Tony seemed to have the same sense, and his grip loosened until he let go of Steve altogether. He looked frustrated but… surprisingly _not angry_. Maybe convincing Tony would be easier than he’d originally thought.

Before Steve had a chance to say more, Tony’s bunk-mate was forcing his way between them, demanding Tony’s attention, “Come on, Anton.” Steve saw Tony roll his eyes, and then he turned away with a sigh, without acknowledging him at all.

His companion made an irritated noise, before turning to Steve. “You know each other?” He seemed to know the answer anyway. Steve was surprised at his accent. German, definitely. He’d know it anywhere, which begged the question of how he’d ended up here. He supposed it wasn’t his business, anyway.

“Not before yesterday,” Steve said. He shook his head—wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, or start asking questions.

“Well, you’re lucky. Annoying Bastard, keeps me up all night with his scratching. S’bad enough he gets the bottom bunk so I have to climb up every night, God knows what he’s doing down there.” Steve glanced at him and, voice casual, said,

“I like the top bunk better, myself.” Steve could see the gears turning in his head at the opportunity, and had to school a smile when the man quickly added,

“Oh. Of course, he is not so bad,” he amended, “You hardly notice if you aren’t listening.”

“I’d trade,” Steve said. The offer of a bottom bunk and relief from constant pestering seemed to be more than enough incentive to switch, and he struck a firm handshake,

“ _Wunderbar_.” He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “I’m Kurt, by the way.” Steve smiled, introducing himself, but Kurt was already running back to his bunk to collect his things.

Steve saw Tony shoot him a look, exasperation at first, which turned to confusion. His ex-bunkmate said something to him. The glare Tony sent his way could have killed, but Steve ignored it as threw his things onto the top bunk, returning a companionable smile.

He caught a flash of yellowing paper, crumpled and worn at the edges, before it was tucked fully beneath Tony’s bunk. It was the same stack of paper’s he’d been hiding in the lining of his jacket yesterday, and when Tony looked his way, he pretended he hadn’t seen.

Men were beginning to congregate at the doorway, at war with whether they wanted line up for breakfast or avoid facing the bitter morning air a little longer.

“Lord knows why you think I’m worth it,” Stark groused. He fixed him with a stony look before pulling his coat around him tightly. Steve snatched his coat and followed closely behind, nudging one of the men stumbling sleepily behind the group aside to slide up next to Tony. He huffed in annoyance, but anything else he might have said was lost in the wind.

 

The kitchen was a lot more hectic than Steve was used to at Kotlas, but the basic setup was the same. Bowls were counted out for each gang, the exact number of servings needed, plus extra for the assistants and bosses that warranted it, and the assistant bosses would distribute them. It was the same mush as always too, which meant the same moaning and groaning about said mush. Tony instantly broke for the tables, trying to get a place to sit before they all filled, but Steve hung back to stand by the grate that protected the cooks from the prisoners.

The assistant gang bosses crowded over toward the kitchen at the same time that the rest of the gang poured into the room, making a bee-line for the seats. The tables were crowded with people who had already finished eating, but were enjoying the comfort of a place to sit. Those that had to eat standing up were cursing and threatening, but the men at the tables ignored them. When a man spent most of the day, every day, for a ten or twenty year sentence on his feet working, there was very little that could pull him from a comfortable chair.

The cook slid two bowls through the tiny slot between the kitchen and the mess, but he didn’t shout out a number with them, momentarily distracted. Something crashed down in the kitchen behind him, and his hands drew away from the slot. Steve walked past the window, lifting one of the bowls as he went. Another man, short and angular in his movements, had a similar idea, and lifted the other bowl. He sent Steve a wink, disappearing into the crowd.

Steve was fairly certain that no one had seen, and when the cook resumed his count as though the two bowls hadn’t existed, he knew for sure. Steve grabbed his own portion from the assistant boss’s stack and made his way to the tables. He’d learned very quickly that an extra meal was a commodity not many could afford to pass up, and an even better bargaining tool.

He made it to the table at the same time as another, lanky man who seemed determined to grab the last open seat beside Tony. Steve sidestepped him, earning half an angry shout that died as soon as he realized that he wouldn’t win a fight against Steve if he started one. Tony got one look at him and scoffed, but he wasn’t angry enough to relinquish his seat, either.

“Fuck off, Stepan,” Tony said. He scraped idly at the bottom of his empty bowl, “I’m sure Hammer had something very important to discuss.” He cut the wiry man a glance, with an expression Steve probably would have afforded a stain on his shirt. Hammer didn’t seem to notice, and took the cue to start in on all the important things he’d had to say.

Rather than answer, Steve slid the extra bowl Tony’s way.

Tony looked surprised, but didn’t hesitate to accept the offer, and both he and Steve pointedly ignored the green eyes cast their way. Tony gave him a look that Steve couldn’t quite decipher—regret, maybe—and Tony stood to leave, “You won’t last long,” he said. It was spoken quietly enough that Steve wasn’t sure he’d been meant to hear it at all.

“I don’t have to,” Steve said. For a moment, he wasn’t certain if Tony had heard him or not, either, but then Tony leaned down next to his ear, so he could whisper, in English.

“They have a saying here, Rogers. You die today, I die tomorrow,” he said, “It’s every man for himself, and I’ll be _damned_ if I let you come along and ruin things for me here.”

And then he was gone. Steve twisted around to watch him retreating through the crowd. When he turned back, the seat beside him had already filled.


	2. Chapter 2

On-site work wasn’t particularly difficult, and it had the benefit of zero travel time to and from the camp. Once the meal time ended, Steve immediately headed back into the barracks. It was still early, and the room hadn’t yet had a chance to warm. Instead of joining the rest by the stove for the last few minutes before the work day began, Steve went to find the gang boss for his job assignment.

The gang boss was an older man named Dimitri with round, grimy spectacles and wispy hair. He worked his men only the bare minimum that he had to. He’d explained to Steve not long after he’d switched gangs that his motives were purely selfish – “A farmer takes care of his chicken, Stepan, or if he wants eggs, what is he to do?” – but Steve was positive he simply didn’t want the gang suspecting that he actually cared. Not that there was a soul here who didn’t suspect it, but it worked well enough to keep the boys in line all the same.

Dimitri had pulled aside one of the other members in the gang – Hammer, Steve recalled his name from the kitchen earlier – who gave Steve a sour look for dragging him away from the fire. Dimitri ignored him, slapping Steve on the shoulder.

“You’ll work with him today, moving sheet metal for riveting. Good?” he asked. Steve nodded, but Hammer looked even less pleased than before. He was clearly not a fan of their job assignment.

Steve didn’t particularly care. He just followed behind Hammer as he lead the way, grumbing and stomping his feet. There were dozens of strips of sheet metal lying stacked next to the scaffoldings. They weren’t too heavy, but they were large and awkward and required two people to drag them up the ladder. Justin happily went up first—to give him most of the weight, Steve assumed—and pulled the sheet along behind him.

They fell into a pattern of that: Hammer going first, mostly holding the thing steady as Steve carried it all the way up. Once they reached the top with it, the riveters would take it off their hands, and they’d start back down for another. Tony was settled on the far end of the scaffold, and Steve glanced his way every time he reached the top. Steve only managed to catch his attention once, and he’d honestly expected the man to look away. Instead he’d just held his gaze, his face unreadable, before Hammer stepped in between them, making his way back around to the ladder.

When Steve looked again, Tony had gone back to work, so Steve trailed back down the ladder once again.

The frost dusting the rungs had melted under their hands after so many trips up and down, and while the cold was attempting to re-freeze it as fast as it melted, the resulting slush just made the ladder slippery. He considered warning Hammer about that, but had just assumed the man would notice on his own.

Hammer’s boot slipped on the way back up, and he dropped his half of the sheet to catch himself again. Steve yelped and lost his grip on the sheet. It slid out of his grasp entirely, tearing straight through his glove and slashing a line down his palm as it dropped to the ground. When it clanged violently against the bars the scaffolding shuddered for a brief moment, threatening to tip before settling once more.

Nearly every head turned at the noise. Hammer glanced his way, noting the cut on his hand with mild disinterest, but he went from looking unapologetic to hunted in a moment once he saw the glare Steve leveled him with.

“Rogov!” Dimitri shouted. Steve peeled his eyes away from Hammer, and Boss motioned him down. It awkward climbing, the blood on his glove making it stick to the ladder, and he had to peel it off with more force than he’d have expected once or twice. Steve bit back a hiss as Dimitri prodded around the wound, clucking his tongue under his breath. He was definitely doting, there was no other way to describe it, but Steve kept that to himself; he didn’t think Dimitri would appreciate the observation. He pulled off his glasses, trying to clean the lenses with the bottom of his shirt but only managing to smear the streaks of grime around.

He sighed. “Go get yourself on the sick-list, son. Hospital block’s that way.” He nodded toward the path, and Steve turned to see which building he was indicating.

Dimitri smacked Hammer upside the head when he joined them on the ground, but didn’t pursue it further, leaving Justin to grumble and shoot the old man a poisonous look.

Steve thought he saw Tony poking his head over the edge of the scaffold, but when he looked up he wasn’t there anymore. He couldn’t dwell on it though—there was only so much room on the sick-list, and it filled up quickly. While he walked he peeled his glove back. It was bitterly cold, and the air stung his hand the moment the glove came off. It felt like the blood was freezing on contact with the cold air, but he wasn’t too keen on the glove freezing to his skin, either. Besides, the glove could probably be mended, and he didn’t want to ruin it by getting it too bloody. It wasn’t like he would be getting a replacement.

He jogged the rest of the way, taking note of the parts of the camp he had yet to see. There was nothing particularly useful for his mission; most of the barracks were fairly uniform and the hospital had even more guards than the factory, most likely to protect the hospital staff and discourage theft of important medicine or supplies. From what, Steve wasn’t really sure – most of the people who came through here were just as likely to never leave. The more he memorized every aspect of the camp, the more he was convinced that they would have to make their escape attempt off site.

The door to the hospital block was heavy, and Steve jerked it open quickly to slip inside, careful to keep as much warmth from the room trapped inside. And it was _warm_. Most of the allure of getting on the sick-list was getting to spend the day inside the hospital block instead of out in the cold, and even if you were well enough to be put to work in the building, it was a far cry better than any of the jobs that left you scrubbing the ice out of your hair.

Steve shuddered to ward off the rest of the cold before stepping the rest of the way inside. The whole place was strikingly white in comparison to the rest of the camp, and Steve almost felt bad for walking on it, the floor was so clean. There was an orderly sitting behind the desk, and Steve walked over to him. Before he could say anything, the orderly glanced up and sighed,

“If you’re feeling sick, I’ve already excused my two for the day. You’ll have to try for tomorrow.”

Steve showed him his hand. The orderly hummed as though unimpressed. He blinked at him for a moment before huffing. “And you are?”

“Rogov.” He gave Steve an impatient look, as though he was dealing with a child. Steve sighed, turning to show him his number. The man nodded and jotted something down in his ledger.

“Well, we can patch you up but you're too late to stay. Back that way,” he said finally. Steve nodded and the man went back to work. He followed the hallway down to the Surgery. It wasn’t much, really – they weren’t well enough equipped to do any sort of procedure, and the doctors operated under the assumption that most people who needed it weren’t going to make it anyway. Most days, the men who made up the “hospital staff” were actually prisoners lucky enough to win a shift in the hospital and who happened to have a grasp of basic field medicine. If it was an actually serious issue, they usually understood enough to call in the camp’s real doctor, although he wasn’t necessarily more qualified than anyone else.

It was surprisingly dark when he stepped inside, and for a moment he thought he might have gone into the wrong room. Steve blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. He found the medic on duty in the back corner of the room, along with another two orderlies. And yeah, he definitely recognized the medic as one of the inmates from his gang, or at least his number. Aleksei Sytsevich, he thought, although that might have been the last camp.

 

They were all three glaring up at the ceiling, arguing quietly about something. He paused for a moment, not sure that he wanted to interrupt. The steady throb from the cut on his hand made the decision for him. Steve cleared his throat, and the medic looked down at him stoically.

He shot a glance back at the two orderlies, who seemed content to give the ceiling a piece of their mind, before joining Steve. He was huge and angry, although Steve wasn’t sure if he was mad at the light or at having to do this job. Either way, he obviously hadn’t heard Steve enter.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. Steve showed him his palm. The medic nodded and grabbed up his suture kit, then motioned for Steve to walk with him. “Follow me then, we’ll have to go out into the lobby to do it. S’too dark in here.”

“…so turn the light on?” Steve suggested. The medic grunted.

“That would be a good suggestion, if the wiring in this place wasn’t shit,” he said. Steve stopped in his tracks, and Aleksei stopped soon after, realizing he wasn’t following anymore.

He had to be careful, of course, in deciding who got to know about Tony’s intelligence and who didn’t. The real problem was the guards. The orderlies didn’t know any better, and a prisoner would be even better. They wouldn’t find it odd at all, and even if they did, they usually got nothing out of reporting the prisoners other than the risk of punishment if they were wrong.

“I know someone who will fix it for you, if you let him stay inside after,” Steve said. The medic regarded him carefully, considering.

“And he can fix it?” he asked at length.

“I’m sure.” Well…pretty sure. “He’s in our gang. Anton.” There was a spark of recognition on his face, and he grumbled something about not thinking of that himself earlier. Steve didn’t actually know that he could do the job, per se, but if Tony could fix the boiler at the factory so easily he was sure he’d figure something out here, if only to escape the cold for the day.

That seemed good enough for him, so he asked for Tony’s number and then sent one of the orderlies to fetch him, with careful instructions from Steve on where to find him. The orderly seemed happy enough to go, as though he didn’t mind being forced out into the cold at all. They followed him back out into the lobby. The man sitting at reception didn’t seem very pleased to see him – even less so when the medic began preparing his needle. It looked like a sliver in comparison to his huge fingers.

The cut ran the entire length of Steve’s palm and was still bleeding sluggishly when he offered up his hand. Aleksei wasn't very careful. He took his time stitching the wound closed only because it was probably difficult to do precise work with large fingers. Steve watched him work, wincing slightly every time he dug the needle a bit too deep, and wondering whether he was actually qualified to do this. Not that he wasn’t doing an okay job—the stitches were relatively even, at least—but he seemed to be going about it as though mending a hole in his shirt. He probably could have done better himself, if the cut had been on his other hand, but the stitches would hold so there was really no use in complaining.

By the time the door opened again, the medic had stitched up three quarters of his palm. The temperature in the room dropped considerably in the time it took for the orderly and Tony to duck inside, and a little pile of snow had settled where the wind had blown it beneath their chairs. The orderly at the desk cursed the loss of warmth, but it was a pleasant upgrade for the other two, who were shaking out their limbs as though it would rid them of the cold faster.

Tony noticed them immediately, and his gaze dropped to the stitches on Steve’s hand. Steve gave a little shrug, barely a lift of the shoulders, dismissing the injury. It really wasn’t that bad—the skin was red and puffy around the stitches, but Steve had definitely had worse. Tony looked like he was about to say something, but then his attention shifted away, back to the orderly.

“Fuse box?” he asked. The orderly he’d been following blinked at that, as though it hadn’t even occurred to him that they may need to know. Tony fixed him with an impatient look, raising an eyebrow, and the man quickly turned to the medic. Alexi shrugged, attention still focused on Steve’s hand, and sent the two of them off to find someone who knew.

After several minutes of searching they managed to find the panel low on the wall, hidden behind the front desk. The orderly sitting there was none-too-happy having his work space shoved into the far corner to make room, but for the most part they ignored his grumblings.

Tony pulled the plate off the wall. He was clearly unhappy with what he saw, clicking his tongue as he prodded the mess of wires and fuses. The equipment had definitely seen better days, it seemed like there was more exposed wiring than there was insulation left. He reached a whole hand inside and yanked out a whole mess of wiring, picking through it none-too-gently as he inspected the bunch. The orderlies made a little noise of disapproval before Tony silenced them both with a look.

Steve watched with fascination as he began essentially tearing the fuse box to pieces, and the distraction served to take his mind off the sting in his hand. Tony pulled them apart seemingly at random, clenching some in his teeth as he stripped the covering off others and twisted them together. He muttered under his breath the whole time, though he couldn’t be sure if he was complaining about the shoddy wiring or talking himself through the process. Steve would have been concerned that Tony would electrocute himself if he didn’t look so sure in what he was doing.

Aleksei tied a sloppy knot and paused to inspect his handiwork, finally finished with Steve’s hand. He looked satisfied – perhaps a bit too proud for the poor quality, in Steve’s opinion – and hopped up from his seat to get a bandage just as Tony put the panel back on the wall.

“That should do it,” Tony said. He leaned back to put the panel back on the wall, and then turned to the orderlies hovering over his shoulder. “Go take a look.”

They watched the orderlies file out of the room excitedly, eager to see whether they would no longer be working in the dark or with doctors and inmates invading their space, respectively. Steve watched them go, turning to Tony immediately. He didn’t want to waste the opportunity to talk now that they were alone.

Tony beat him to it, and Steve blinked in surprise when he started in English.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tony said. He was quiet enough to avoid anyone accidentally overhearing, but he paused for a long moment before continuing, anyway, “I guess I should thank you.” Steve shrugged.

“I’m on your side, Tony,” Steve replied. Tony snorted at that, but he didn’t look skeptical. He just cocked his head to the side expectantly, like he was waiting to hear what Steve wanted in return. It didn’t surprise Steve. There wasn’t a lot of room for no-strings-attached arrangements in a place like this – Tony no doubt was waiting for Steve to twist his arm into going along with his plans.

That’s not how he wanted this to go, though. Tony would have to _want_ to escape with him if they were ever going to make this work, and while blackmail and bribery may have worked on lesser men, Steve had guessed from the start that that wouldn’t be enough in this case.

“They going to let you stay?” Steve asked instead. He switched back to Russian seamlessly, carrying on in the same manner he’d strike up small talk with the rest of the gang.

Tony looked a little startled by the change of subject, but he shrugged easily enough, though Steve could still see him regarding him warily, looking for the catch. “Until dinner, as long as I’m working maintenance while I’m here,” he shrugged. And then, as an afterthought: “You?”

“Nah.” Steve flexed his hand, and the stitches pulled uncomfortably. “Good as new.” He wasn’t, really, but there wasn’t much he could do about it; he’d have to be careful working while the cut healed, lest the wound get infected. He didn’t really want to have to come to the hospital any more than strictly necessary, especially when every day spent away from learning the ins and outs of the camp would make escaping that much harder. Tony had lived here for a year, though. It would be a lot easier with his help.

He didn’t have the chance to voice that thought, because just then the medic was back with a bandage for Steve’s hand. He roughly cleaned away the rest of the blood, and crookedly slapped a bandage over it, dismissing Steve to return to the worksite without another word.

 

 

When Steve walked in to the Barracks after dinner, everyone had broken off into groups to lie around until lights out. He spotted a group of people crowded around his bed and, sure enough, Tony was among them.

Steve recognized Aleksei and Kurt, but everyone else was unfamiliar. Hammer hovered a few feet away, and shot him a sour look when he walked up. The group was playing cards, and it looked like Hammer had been kicked from the game, or never allowed to join in the first place, which pleased Steve in a petty sort of way that he refused to acknowledge. The whole situation reminded him of grade school, especially the way Hammer was pouting, but he chose not to point that out.

“What’re you playing?” Steve asked.

“Poker,” Aleksei said. “You got a cigarette?”

“No.”

“Tough shit, we’re playing for cigarettes.”

“I’ll spot him.” Tony waved him over to the seat next to him. No one had any problem with that—good, more for me when I clean you suckers out—and Tony slid over on the bed. “Grab a seat. Stepan, Kurt, Piotr, Aleksi, Christoph.” Tony ticked them off as he went through introductions, and then Steve promptly had a pile of rocks shoved into his hand.

“I thought we’re playing for cigarettes?”

“We are. Man with the most chips at the end gets one from everyone,” Tony said. He shuffled the deck between his fingers thoughtfully. “And if you win I get half yours,” he added, “for buying you in.”

“Sounds fair.” Steve shuffled his chips into a pile at his feet, and watched Tony deal out the cards. The group was surprisingly rowdy. Steve wouldn’t have expected them to have the energy after such a long day’s work. He supposed part of it was that they were all dedicated to winning. Steve didn’t really need them—he didn’t smoke much, not after an entire childhood of asthma—and he didn’t have anything he would want to trade for.

He’d probably end up giving his half of them to Tony, anyway. Not that he needed to. Tony seemed entirely capable of winning them on his own. After playing a few hands, Kurt elbowed him in the ribs.

“How’s your hand?” Kurt asked. It took Steve a moment to realize that he was referring to his injury and not his cards. Steve shrugged, showing him the bandage. It would heal up just fine.

“It’s not fair, Aleksei gets to play doctor, and then Hammer goes and injures our only other heavy lifter.” Steve recalled the boss reassigning Kurt to his job after he decided Steve shouldn’t use his hand unless they wanted a repeat performance. He’d seemed to agree with the decision, though that hadn’t stopped him complaining.

“Piotr does fine.” Tony pointed to the man in the bed beneath Kurt, laying down his cards. Kurt scoffed.

“And where is he assigned? Laying bricks! And not even carrying them! Laying!” Kurt made a wild gesture that mimicked spreading mortar, then leaned over the bed and said, “I hope the trowel did not hurt your arms.” Tony had won the hand with a full house and began scraping the makeshift poker chips toward his pile. His seemed to be substantially larger than the rest of theirs, though Steve was proud to see that he wasn’t doing quite as poorly as the rest.

“Anton, you bastard, you’re cheating!” Aleksei’s shout drowned out whatever Piotr’s response was.

“How am I cheating?” Tony challenged him with a grin and made a show of shuffling one-handed.

“You memorized the cards!”

“Stepan’s doing fine, did he memorize the cards too?” Tony asked. He smirked and Aleksei sputtered, unable to come up with a retort fast enough, “Quit being a sore loser, Aleksei.” He straightened the rocks into neat little piles, his tone light and teasing.

“He’s winning because he can read you like a book.” Piotr made a face to demonstrate. “You always make a stupid face when you have a good hand, comrade.”

Aleksei considered that seriously, nodding. The advice didn’t do him much good. His attempt at a poker face was even more obvious than his normal reactions, and Steve had to try very hard to stifle his laugh. Tony noticed, though, and the knowing look only made the situation funnier, as though the group had been through this conversation before.

The thought made Steve a little sad. Tony had been in here almost a year, some of them longer. Long enough to memorize the blemishes in a deck of cards. Long enough to see one cigarette as valuable. His job was to get Tony out, but these were good people, mostly, who had not done near enough wrong to deserve their sentences. Steve wished that he could help them all, though he knew that it would be impossible.

He’d be damned if he couldn’t help Tony, though.

Promising himself that mollified him, somewhat, and he turned his attention back to his cards. They played a couple more hands before the guards came in to call lights-out. A few of the players grumbled, never quite able to overcome Tony’s lead, but they all pulled out their cigarettes to pay him. Tony collected them happily, turning to Steve with a sly grin.

“You can pay me back some other way, hmm? I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Tony said. Steve glanced up sharply. The look he gave Steve was lost to him, though, as they flipped the lights and unceremoniously plunged them into darkness. Steve huffed a little in irritation and let it go, hauling himself up into his bunk.

The mattress creaked beneath him as Tony settled in, and Steve listened to him shuffle around while he settled and let himself drop off into much needed sleep. He dropped of to the sound of scratching, quiet but steady in the darkness.

The sound of the morning bell woke him, and Steve dragged himself into a sitting position, blearily rubbing sleep from his eyes. He hissed, remembering belatedly the cut on his palm, and turned to climb out of bed. Steve stopped when he spotted his gloves draped over the bedpost next to his pillow. He usually left them tucked inside his boot, to make sure he didn’t lose them.

Steve snatched it, turning the gloves over in his hands. Though it wasn’t fancy, the hole in the palm carefully mended with a length of black string. Steve grinned—he’d been expecting that he would have to work through the cold despite the hole, and it was a relief to see the thing fixed, as he had no way to do it himself—but, if he was being honest with himself, he was smiling more for who had done it than anything else. It could only have been Tony.

He leaned over the edge of the bunk to thank him, but he wasn’t there. Steve could see just the corner of whatever he’d been scratching out the night before protruding from beneath the mattress. It wasn’t unusual for a man to get up early if it was to check for packages or have a smoke. For Tony, it was odd. Steve knew that he had no reason to check for a package, because he had no one to send him one.

As though in answer to Steve’s thoughts, the group that had gone for their packages reentered the room, babbling noisily for such an early hour. Half of them were empty handed, trailing behind Tony, who was smiling like an idiot as he popped a piece of summer sausage into his mouth.

“Anton, hey, where’d you get that, huh? I’ve never seen you get a package.”

Tony grinned. “No, but Ivan in Gang Two gets one every month,” he said.

“How the hell did you wheedle that outta him?”

“We have an agreement,” Tony said. “I’m very resourceful.”

“Well, you’re gonna share, right?” He was giving Tony a cheeky grin, eyeing the food as though weighing how difficult it would be to snatch it. Tony raised an eyebrow, considering for a moment, before tearing the sausage in half. The man let out a triumphant whoop that quickly devolved into outrage when he realized the other half wasn’t going to him. Instead Tony tossed the piece to Steve. Steve looked to Tony, who’s attention was still on the rest of the group.

“Oh, Rogov gets a piece, I don’t get a piece?” the man whined. Tony shrugged, playing nonchalant despite not looking in Steve’s direction.

“Sure, I like Rogov.”

“What, you don’t like me?”

“Nah, you’re fuckin’ ugly. I gotta stare at your mug all day, if anything, you owe me half a sausage.”

The man made an indignant noise and sputtered, trying to come up with a retort. Steve watched him with amusement and took a bite. The sausage was much too salty, but in comparison to the mush he’d been eating for the last few weeks it was delicious.

“All right, ya bums, enough chatter. Get moving,” the gang boss grumbled. He brushed past the group for his boots. Most of the men were already prepared to leave. The little group around Tony quickly dispersed. Steve got up to follow, snatching the glove from the post as he went.

His hand hurt, but he didn’t think he’d need to go back to the hospital block today. He hurriedly pulled on his boots and headed for the door. The rest of the gang had already filed outside, and he was about to jog to catch up when a figure at the end of the hall caught his eye.

He would get in trouble if they didn’t find him in the lineup, but he stopped just inside the door, anyway.

Steve stayed out of sight, watching Hammer and the warder conversing, Hammer insistent and low while the warder made no effort to hide his speech. Even at a distance, he could clearly make out the topic of conversation.

Anton Starikov.

Steve stepped back through the doorway, walking as quickly as he could back to the barracks. The room had been emptying quickly when he left, and Steve didn’t know whether Tony was one of the first to leave or the last. If he was still in there, or working on something while the warder was looking for him, Steve had to warn him—

He threw the door to the barracks open, and it echoed off the wall. Empty. Steve took a few steps inside, searching around the corners and beds to be certain, but even if Tony wouldn’t have noticed or cared about his entrance, it was clear that he wasn’t here.

The faint sound of voices—angry, cursing, insistent voices—and the quick snap of boots echoing off the walls caught his attention. Steve hesitated, walking over to his and Tony’s bunk. He slid one hand under Tony’s mattress, and then he pulled himself into the top bunk.

No sooner had he settled, with one hand under his back and the other behind his head, did Hammer, the warder, and three guards storm in, followed shortly after by Tony himself. They looked startled to see him, most of all Tony, but the warder recovered quickly.

“S-501.” He glanced at the patch on his knee for the number. “Why aren’t you out of bed?” Steve took this as the cue it was, hopping up and going to stand by the far wall. The warder didn’t wait for an answer—Steve suspected he didn’t really want one—and carried on rambling, “You’ll get the Can, three days, with that—” Steve nodded along solemnly to his ranting threats. The warder Hammer had chosen, at least, had the reputation of being the most lenient, only ever threatening prisoners with punishment he would never carry out unless they were absolutely deserving.

Tony was staring at him all the while, expression intent and unreadable. Steve tried at first to ignore him, but eventually gave it up as a lost cause. When he attempted to meet his eye, however, Tony looked away.

“Search his belongings,” the warder said. The three guards went to obey, crossing to where the boots and coats were kept. One began inspecting the boots carefully, the other pulling out the pockets, and then the seams, of Tony’s jacket. He made a little, panicked sound of disapproval when they tore the lining out to search for hidden pockets—which put such a self-satisfied smirk on Hammer’s face Steve had to use all his restraint not to wipe it off himself.

The third went to pull the blankets and pillows off Tony’s bed, shaking them and turning them out as well. Steve saw Tony tense when the guard approached, imperceptible, had he not been watching for it. He didn’t touch the mattress though, and a few moments later, he stepped away to join the other’s in their search.

Tony’s face was pinched and angry, his hands clamped so tightly behind his back that it was a wonder he didn’t break his own fingers. Hammer looked immensely pleased with himself, such that Steve actually considered the consequences of assaulting another worker. From the way he was glaring, Tony was probably thinking the same.

The guards came away from his shoes just as they had with the jacket—empty handed and looking more and more like they believed this was a waste of time. Hammer seemed to pick up on this as well, and insisted, “Check the mattress.”

Tony’s expression was unreadable as he tracked the guard’s progress with his eyes, but Steve saw the tension in his shoulders replaced with resignation as clear as day. When Tony flicked a glance over to Steve, he saw the same expression he’d seen countless times on the battlefield. Acceptance of his fate.

The guard withdrew a knife, opening a slit along the edge of the mattress long enough to feel inside for anything hidden, and then turned the mattress up to search beneath it.

It was empty.

A shadow of confusion crossed Tony’s face, but he hid it well with another glare.

“I told you, I have nothing to hide,” Tony said evenly. The guards finished their search, even going so far as to check Steve’s bunk as well, and then turned back to the warder to confirm that it was empty.

The warder growled, shoving a hand into Hammer’s pocket. Hammer gave an undignified squeak of protest, and the warder pulled out an apple sized pouch of tobacco. Steve found his fingers clenched at the thought of Hammer selling anyone, especially someone he claimed was a friend, out for a pouch of tobacco. Hammer looked mortified as well, though Steve wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been caught snitching, or because he’d been proven wrong. It was very likely both.

The warder grumbled something else—it didn’t even sound Russian, it was so low and filled with frustration over the wasted time—and stalked out the door. The guards half-pushed-half-dragged Hammer from the room after him, one of them pausing to shout “You two, get to line up!” over his shoulder.

The door hadn’t even shut behind them before Tony was at his bed, frantically shucking the covering and then the entire mattress. When he found nothing, he moved to Steve’s, barely noticing Steve come up behind him.

“Tony,” Steve said. When he glanced up, Steve untucked the back of his shirt with one hand, drawing out the stack of papers he’d hidden there. Tony blanched and snatched them from Steve’s hands. He watched while Tony stood flipping through them for a long moment, and then, like a damn breaking, he sagged against the cot in relief, still clutching the papers as though they were the last thing in the world he cared about.

Maybe they were.

Eventually, he turned to Steve and said, “How did – You knew about these?” he asked.

Steve shrugged. “You had them when we first met. I noticed. I don’t know what they are, but I overheard Hammer talking to the warder.” Steve looked him in the eye, and this time Tony held his gaze. “I told you, I’m here to help keep you—and those, whatever they are—out of the wrong hands.”

The papers in his hands crinkled as his grip tightened momentarily. He instantly laid them out on his lap, smoothing the wrinkled edges with his palms and running his fingers along lines etched out on the pages.

“It’s a power source. It’s…” Tony trailed off, thinking better of explaining. He eventually settled on, “Thank you.” When Steve looked at him, he could tell he meant it.

“You can make it up to me,” Steve said. “Stop playing day laborer and help me. We have a train to catch. And you know it’s only going to be harder to hide those, now that Hammer knows you have them.”

“We’d never make it,” Tony said. The protest had less heat than before, and he smoothed a crease down the middle of the scraps idly as he spoke. He moved to put the papers back under his mattress but paused, thinking better of it, before finally tucking them into the back of his shirt as Steve had. Just until he could find a safe place for them.

“No,” Steve said. “If we never try, we’ll never make it.” Tony still looked at him, unsure. He was clearly beginning to consider it, so Steve pressed on, with all the urgency the situation warranted. “At least with this, there’s a chance. Commander Fury said that train is coming, whether or not we’re there to catch it. This could be it.”

“Why?” Tony asked.

“I told you—” Steve said. Tony shook his head, cutting him off.

“No. I’ve never met this Fury guy, but I know the type, and what they do.” Steve thought of Howard, and the men he’d been working with, and wondered if Tony was thinking of his mother, “—so what I don’t understand is why anyone thought it was a good idea to throw away one of their best soldiers for a guy like me.”

“Some people think pretty highly of you, Tony. And your work.”

“And you?” Tony asked.

“What?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think anyone deserves to live this way,” Steve said. “Least of all, a man like you.”

“A man like me.” Tony repeated, and Steve nodded.

“I don’t understand those designs, but I know enough to understand that they’re revolutionary. Because I’ve read your file, and more importantly, I’ve seen you work. Fixing the boiler. Redoing the wiring. You do it like it’s nothing to you. I’d like to see what a man like that could do, when he’s not working with scraps and trying to hide like he’s no better than the rest of us.”

“You’re insane,” Tony said. It wasn’t a no. “Prisoners try to escape, and they die. If they’re not shot outright, it’s the cold. They _always_ die.”

“That’s the idea,” Steve said. “When they think we’re dead, they’ll stop searching.”

Tony was silent, for a long, long moment. Finally, he laughed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw grey. “You crazy son of a bitch,” Tony mumbled, “when do we leave?”

Steve couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

“As soon as possible,” Steve said, “and I think I know how we’ll do it.”

As it turned out, Gang Three _was_ up for the Community Development project, and would be starting at the end of the week. This would be the best possible circumstance for them to escape, because the work area wouldn’t be clearly marked or fenced in yet by barbed wire, and the location was just far enough away from the camp that they should be able to escape into the woods—and make their way to the extraction point—before reinforcements could be called for a search.

The only thing they really needed at this point was a suitable plan.

 

Steve preferred to speak in English with Tony when they were alone. He thought Tony probably did too, but both of them were hyper aware of how dangerous it could be, especially if one of the warders or even someone like Hammer overheard. So they kept their English-speaking to a minimum, but that didn’t mean they didn’t take advantage of the chances they got, when the rest of the gang wandered off the smoke or pick up spare jobs for an extra meal, or when they were working apart from the group, up on the rafters or set to odd jobs like fixing the boiler.

Steve liked how talkative Tony was, when they were speaking English. While his Russian was fluent it lacked flair, which was almost definitely because he was being conscious of the fact that Steve didn’t speak it as well. On the other hand, he was beyond fluent in English, often surprising Steve with phrases and vocabulary he’d never heard before. When they got to talking, and it wasn’t just pre-planning for their escape, Tony was a riot to listen to. He had the same sharp wit as Howard, and a passion for mechanics that made every topic interesting, even when Steve didn’t understand.

This time, they’d found a less-crowded corner of the barracks. Almost everyone was on the other end of the room, playing cards for the contents of a package one of the assistant bosses had recieved. Tony had dragged Steve over to their bunks to have some privacy to plan. Eventually Tony had pulled out his blueprints and Steve had pulled out the little chip of a pencil he’d dug up and a piece of paper to sketch while Tony worked, because he got so involved he sometimes forgot Steve was there, and Steve didn’t really like to bother him.

“Your Russian’s pretty good. Where did you learn?” Tony asked. Steve shrugged. They’d been sitting in silence for nearly half an hour, the only sounds the occasional shout of triumph or outrage from across the room, when Steve realized that he couldn’t hear the scratch of Tony’s pencil anymore. When he glanced up, Tony was staring at his drawing.

“That’s really good.” He tapped Steve’s drawing with one index finger. Steve glanced down, realized he’d been sketching Tony drafting blueprints, and was suddenly embarrassed. He slipped a hand over the drawing to cover it, but Tony made an annoyed noise and nudged it aside to look closer. “Ever thought about making a career out of this? You know, after the army?” Steve didn’t really want to explain that he didn’t think there would ever be an _after the army_ , so he just shrugged.

“Maybe. I don’t really know.” Tony eyed him for a second, and then.

“Can I keep this?” he asked. He grabbed it by the corner, tugging the paper closer. Then he slid a new, blank piece over to Steve. “Here, trade.”

“Sure.” Steve replied meekly. He watched Tony fold the paper up and slip it into his boot, and that was all he had to say on the subject, turning back to his designs like he hadn’t ever stopped. Steve didn’t know how to react to that, so he went back to answering Tony’s first question.

“There were a few men who spoke Russian in my unit so I already had the basics. After I was recruited to SHIELD, they made a point to make sure my accent was passable. For missions like this, I suppose.” Tony seemed unfazed by the topic change. “What about you?”

“My mother spoke Russian, Slovak, and Czech. Never said a word to me in English, even though she spoke that too. Drove Howard nuts.” He had a faint little grin that pulled at something in Steve’s chest, like he was reliving a fond memory that he had no right witnessing.

“Why do you do that?” Steve asked cautiously. Tony blinked, confused by the sudden question, and Steve clarified, “Call your dad Howard, I mean.”

He’d never seen anyone’s expression close off so quickly, and Steve immediately regretted asking. It wasn’t any of his business. He shouldn’t have asked. Steve started to say as much when Tony laid a gentle hand on his leg to stop him.

“It’s fine. It’s a fair question.” He said. Tony leaned over slightly, eyes downcast. For a moment, he didn’t say anything else, and Steve was tempted to tell him to drop it, it didn’t matter, but… He really was curious. Steve wasn’t really sure why he wanted to be the person Tony confided in, but the idea seemed…right. Nice.

“Mama was…she was very old fashioned. She met him during the war, and she loved him, but she had family. In Czechoslovakia. A sister, her mother, and an uncle, I think…I think some others. She couldn’t just leave them, and she wanted…well, she knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted, with Howard being, you know, always putting work first, but that’s not how she was. So she took me and she went home.

“I remember them fighting. I didn’t really understand why at the time, but he didn’t want her to go. He tried to get me to stay too—I don’t know what he would have done if I had, I think he was just angry and trying spite her.

“She always hoped that he would come, so she didn’t have to choose. He told her he would. He said that as soon as he was done with the contracts he’d already signed they could be together. It wasn’t like he needed the money. And I know that she didn’t make it easy, to come back for her, I mean. But.

“She really did believe he would. Even up until—” Tony closed his mouth with an audible click, and he turned to Steve, eyes searching. “It didn’t matter, in the end. We ended up on our own anyway, and I ended up here. As far as I’m concerned, he was no more my father than I was his son, and he seemed pretty content to keep it that way.”

Steve wished he could protest the point, but he didn’t think he could. Howard was…never a kind man, necessarily, but he certainly cared about the men that would be relying on him and the weapons he built, even if he could sometimes come across as rude. But maybe Steve just hadn’t known him as well as he thought. After all, he’d known Howard all throughout the war without him so much as mentioning a wife or a child, even going so far as to flirt with other women, including Peggy.

He never let anything come of it, so far as Steve knew, but in hindsight it didn’t seem like something a married man should do. Something else Tony said caught his attention though, and he hesitated in asking, not sure if it was something Tony would be willing to share, before his curiosity got the better of him.

“Tony.” Steve said the name slowly, pausing to give him time to cut him off if he wanted to before he said, “Can I ask…how _did_ you get here?” Tony grimaced, idly ripping one of the corners from the page in front of him and flicking it away.

“Stealing from the commune. Twenty years.” He ran a hand through his hair, pursed his lips as though considering whether he should continue. Steve waited patiently, refusing to press him for it even though he was dying to know. After a while Tony glanced at him searchingly. He seemed to approve of whatever he saw, because he continued in a low voice.

“She was sick.” He cleared his throat, then clarified: “My mother, I mean. At first it wasn’t so bad, and the doctors told her that she would get over it on her own, but…eventually she was so ill that she could hardly work anymore. We tried to ask for medicine, but then they said that the collective couldn’t afford to spare for someone who wasn’t pulling her weight in the community.” Tony clenched his fists so tight that his nails bit into his palm, leaving little crescent-shaped cuts on his skin. “It was their fault that she couldn’t work, for not giving her treatment in the first place! So…I had to do something, I couldn’t just leave her like that.

“I knew where the hospital kept their stock, and she needed that medicine. No one was around when I stole it, and I was sure that I’d gotten away with it, but one of my neighbors noticed and reported me to the collective. They arrested me, sent me here, and she…” His voice broke on that last word and he stopped, looking up at him and quickly away, as though ashamed. Steve felt his heart clench in his chest, and he reached for one of Tony’s hands.

“Tony, it’s not your fault that she died,” Steve murmured, “You know that, right?”

“She begged me not to go! I should have listened. I should have been there for her when—” Tony said quickly. His hand tightened on Steve’s, in anger or seeking comfort he wasn’t sure.

“She asked you not to go because she didn’t want to see you hurt,” Steve explained. Tony stared at him, knowing deep down that he was right but not quite willing to let himself believe it.

“I abandoned her.”

“You didn’t.” Steve gave his hand a light squeeze, “ _You didn’t_ ,” he said a little more firmly.

Tony looked down at his hands, instead. Steve could see that he didn’t agree with him. He’d probably spent months wishing that he could be there for her. He imagined how Tony must have felt, those first few months after the letters stopped coming, before anyone remembered her only family, traitor to his country that he was. How much guilty he’d carried after.

She wouldn’t have blamed him. Steve knew, though he’d never met her, just from how fond Tony sounded every time he spoke of her. If Tony couldn’t believe that, then Steve would just have to continue reminding him until he did.

“She would have liked you, I think,” Tony said. Steve couldn’t help himself, he let a soft smile slip. Tony smiled back, grateful to have someone to talk to, relieved that the conversation wasn’t going to take a turn for the awkward. After a moment of silence Tony seemed to register Steve’s hand was still on his, and he pulled back suddenly, casting a furtive glance around to see if anyone had taken notice.

They hadn’t. Sitting together on Tony’s bunk, Steve and Tony barely registered as a blip on anyone’s radar, and Steve intended to keep it that way. He put his back to the wall in such a way that Tony could face him while simultaneously facing away from the rest of the room.

He sat only as close as he needed to for their conversation to not be overheard, their legs brushing up against each other. No one was paying them any mind, everyone else happy to enjoy what little leisure time they had in their own way. Most were off smoking or trying to coerce a small amount of tobacco out of those lucky enough to get a package from home – or have a home to send packages at all. Some were already asleep, and frankly the risk of eavesdroppers was slim to none. Still, they didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing.

“Tomorrow’s our last chance. We have to do it then,” Steve said. He ran a thumb across the lump in the inner lining of his coat thoughtfully. Tony had known of a man who managed to hide away a compass—never to use, simply to own—and they had sewn the item into the lining of his jacket. It was for emergencies, should they need it they’d have to rip it out, but the thought of it there brought him comfort every time they discussed their escape. This was looking increasingly more difficult, the closer they got to their deadline. Steve didn’t look overly confident, but he had a look of resolute determination that Tony had grown accustomed to seeing on his face. Steve knew the odds weren’t good – he just didn’t care.

“Yeah, and how the hell are we going to do this without getting shot?” Tony asked. That was the real problem. He wanted to believe that Steve could make this work, but Tony had been in Izhma for a long time. He knew what happened to the runners, he’d seen it countless times before. It all seemed easy in theory, but if they didn’t figure out how to get past the guards long enough to escape into the trees, there was no way they would make it.

Even then, they probably wouldn’t make it. He forced the thought away.

“What we’ll need is a distraction, something to take the guard’s focus off us long enough to slip away.”

“How are we gonna organize a distraction without someone getting suspicious, or—”

“575!” Tony’s head snapped up at his number, out of habit more than anything else, gaze turning toward the source of the noise. He locked eyes with Dimitri, who flinched. Tony mentally cursed, realizing his mistake the moment he saw the hard lines of his face. It was an old trick—Dimitri was fiercely protective of his gang, and he would often pretend to not know who exactly the warders were looking for when they came to him. Usually he could stall them until lights-out, claiming he didn’t know—“who the fuck these numbers are, Jesus fuck, you expect me to memorize them all?”—at which point they would have to leave, often with the punishment forgotten by the next day.

Tony wasn’t so lucky. Two guards and a warder were standing in the doorway, and their gaze settled on him the moment he looked up when his number was called. He swiftly tried to play it off as simply reacting to the noise—stupid, stupid, he should have been paying attention—but the warders weren’t buying it, already making their way over.

“Fuck,” Tony hissed. He glanced at Steve, trying to keep a lid on the panic rising in his chest, “They know—”

“We don’t know that. Don’t give them anything.” Steve mumbled. He gazed at him steadily, but his eyes flashed worried for a split second before his whole body took on a casual air. He leaned back carefully against the wall to watch the warder’s approach. He would almost have look relaxed, if it weren’t for the slight twitch in his muscles, the balling of his fist, and oh god, Steve was actually going to try and fight his way out of here if things went bad.

Something as simple as stealing food could get you ten nights in the can. That was a death sentence, no two ways about it. Steve would know that. But planning an escape… Tony eyed the guard’s sidearm, straightening and putting on a confident face, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Starikov, 575.” It wasn’t a question, Tony knew. He didn’t want to press his luck, so he nodded once.

“What is this about?” Tony asked. He shied away slightly and did his best not to sound too insubordinate. He could feel Steve’s knee pressing into the small of his back and he leaned into it.

“Get up. Get your things together,” he said.

“Why?” Tony blurted. The guard gave him a look – he was overstepping, he knew, but the man answered him anyway.

“You’re in for a night in the can.” Only one night. Tony didn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid at such a short punishment. Either this was for some other reason, or... He didn’t even want to think about the alternative.

“I haven’t done anything,” he snapped. Tony was pressing his luck because…well, he hadn’t been shot yet. The warder glared, and Steve saw the risk in arguing in the set of his jaw and clench of his teeth. He put just the slightest pressure into Tony’s back, willing him to be amiable.

“What for?” Steve asked instead. The warder eyed him like he was considering not answering at all.

“One night, work as usual. Boss says to stay warm. Storm’s coming.” He said. The words were taunting, pulling an entirely different emotion than anger from him. Tony’s heart was beating wildly. Had they been caught? He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to betray anything if they hadn’t. He screwed his face up in the expected irritation, feeling like he was going to shake apart and doing his best to keep the fear in check. The warder smirked, a smarmy, toothy grin, so he was probably convincing. “Hurry up, or do I need—”

“I’m coming, it’s fine,” he snapped. Tony hopped off the bed, pulled his coat on tightly before they made him leave without it, “You don’t need to call anyone. I can walk.” Before he could pass, Steve grabbed his arm, and he stilled. His voice was low, quiet enough that the guards wouldn’t overhear even if they cared to, and his earnest expression instantly mollified him.

“Nothing’s changed. I’ll work out the details. Don’t panic.” And then Tony was gone, strolling over to the door with all the bravado of a man with nothing to lose. Steve watched him go, only aware of the tension in Tony’s shoulders because he was looking for it, feeling it in his own.

And then, because there was nothing left to do, Steve inclined on his bed, ignoring the curious glances some of the other inmates were sending his way, and the sad, searching look from Dimitri, and set about developing a strategy.

 

Tony’s meal was brought to him that morning, and with all of its cold lack of appeal it also carried a lot of pent up frustration. Tony knew now that they hadn’t been found out, but that didn’t make it any less stressful. Steve had said that nothing had changed, to stick to the plan, but there wasn’t even really a plan to stick to—they’d never gotten the chance to iron out the important details of the escape. Tomorrow was their last chance, and he was going in blind. He’d hoped he would at least get a chance to eat with the gang—he didn’t doubt Steve could come up with a plan on his own, but how in the hell was Tony supposed to play a part if he didn’t know what his part was?

Finally, after what felt like hours, an orderly came to collect him. He disinterestedly shoved Tony’s jacket and gloves into his hand. With a quick word that they were already lining up and Tony had better beat it, the orderly left. When Tony found them, they were lining up inside—which was odd, but not unheard of—and Steve was lingering toward the back, talking to the assistant boss of one of the other gangs. Tony didn’t know him, but he recognized the face.

The conversation was heated—on the assistant boss’s end at least—but none of the anger seemed directed at Steve. Instead, the guy shook his hand, patting him roughly on the shoulder, before stomping off to his own gang.

“Steve—” Before he could say anything more, the soldier hushed him, falling into line. Tony took the last spot in the five, pushing another prisoner rather roughly out of the way. Luckily for him, he was smaller and of the kind of person who didn’t really give a shit about anything, and even less so since his internment, so he just hopped in line behind Tony instead.

“Blizzard rolled in last night. Supposed to last all day,” Steve said instead. Tony heard the underlying loud and clear. They were in luck—depending on perspective—because they guards wouldn’t be watching as closely for escapees in the storm. They usually didn’t even bother to chase the ones that ran off in a blizzard.

Then again, most people weren’t idiotic enough to run, then, either.

That was, of course, because anyone who escaped into a storm was as good as dead. If they didn’t die frozen with their boots on, they’d just make it until the snow cleared to find they’d made it all of a mile and the guards would find them before they had a chance to get their bearings. Tony hoped the compass would give them an edge there, but he wasn’t so sure.

The guards opened the doors and the room was instantly assaulted with a barrage of snow and wind that cut like daggers through their clothes. The chill pierced straight to their bones, and for a moment the entire room was frozen in shock. Eventually, the order to move carried over the wind, and the group made their first hurried lurch forward.

In this kind of weather, then only thing that could be done was to keep moving, and try and keep warm. The faster they walked, the faster they’d get to work, and hopefully the faster they’d finish. The only thing that Community Development had to its benefit was the quota they had to meet was, essentially, a glimmer of hope that if they worked hard enough, they could get home where it was warm faster.

Today it was an actual possibility, since the guards and the warders had to be out in the snow too, even if they locked themselves into the relative comfort of the watchtowers. This time Tony was thankful for it, because the procession made it to the work site in record time. The moment the guards broke—this time not even bothering to run through the “run and we’ll gun you down” warning—Steve pulled him aside.

“When the guards are distracted, run. Run north, and don’t stop until you hit the tracks. I’ll find you. Understand?”

“Wait, hold on—” Tony began to protest, but Steve looked away, as though their conversation was over. He continued talking, though, in a low voice only Tony could hear.

“There isn’t enough time to fill you in, Tony, just…trust me,” Steve said. His voice was hollow and muffled in the wind.

Tony nodded immediately, even though Steve didn’t see the gesture, because he _did_ trust him, despite his better judgment he honestly did believe Steve could pull this off, but before he could say as much Steve walked away, and grabbed a pickaxe off the rack. Tony hesitated only a second before grabbing the last available shovel and starting in on clearing the drifts. But try as he may, he couldn’t help but chance a look at the guards every few minutes to see if they were paying attention. No one was so much as glancing in his direction whenever he looked. If he should be so lucky.

 

Tony was practically radiating nervous energy after the first ten minutes. Frankly, he was surprised the guards hadn’t grown suspicious and pulled him off the job already, he was probably _screaming_ suspicious, but fuck if he could get himself to calm down. He twisted his hands nervously around the handle of the pickaxe, grimacing at the way the steadily falling snow clung to the edges and made them stick.

A distraction. What _kind of distraction_ , and how the hell was he supposed to see _anything_ in this snow? He didn’t know where Steve was working. Probably somewhere off toward the other end of the fence, but he didn’t dare look now; instead he willed himself to calm down and focus on the steady clink, clink, clink of the axe head against the frozen ground.

He kept his head down to shield against the weather, eyes fixed on the ground where he was steadily working on hollowing a ditch in the earth.

Tony almost didn’t stop his swing in time when a body fell into the ditch. He paused, the head of the axe dangling over his shoulder. A dull chill ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the cold, before the man pushed himself up out of the snow, and the anger in his eyes chased the chill away, replaced it with confusion. The man swiped at his nose and the glove came back bloody as he sprang back up in the direction he’d fallen from.

He caught the assistant boss in the stomach. There was a beat of indecision, tension hanging palpable in the air, before the yard broke into chaos. The assistant boss, screaming and spitting, was dragged back by another prisoner, flushed bright red from a kind of heated anger that Tony wouldn’t have thought the man capable of.

Tony had no idea what had started this—only that one moment there were men working in neat rows and the next, chaos. He stood frozen, watching the scuffle unfold for almost a full thirty seconds before a flying axe narrowly missed his head, shocking him into action, and he remembered what Steve had told him.

Distraction. Right. This kind of distraction—he had no fucking idea what Steve had said to the man earlier to rile him this much, but he’d seemed pretty angry when he’d seen Steve talking to him. Pissing people off to this extent, that was Tony’s specialty.

Several of the other prisoners were moving away now, back toward the tool racks and away from the commotion in hopes of escaping the punishment as well. Tony followed them, skirting around to the back of the group, forcing himself to walk slowly despite the urge to run.

Tony noted the guards, just beginning to put a stop to the violence—and escalating it, always escalating it—and the rest of the workers, watching, focus turned away from him. He turned back just in time to see a flash of movement vanish into the forest.

He bolted.

The tree line was several hundred yards away, across a long expanse of empty construction site, but it might as well have been miles. Even with the lowered visibility in the snow, Tony couldn’t contain the startled laugh that escaped him when he actually made it to the trees.

He almost stopped to look for any sign of Steve, but decided against it, instead pressing forward as quickly as he could. Now that he’d left the clearing the snow was even deeper, no longer packed down or cleared away by the prisoners, and only after nearly taking a dive into the snow did he force himself to slow down.

Tony knew he should see tracks in the snow from where Steve’s trudged through before him. He didn’t, but there was nothing to be done about it, it wasn’t like he could double back and look for signs of what direction Steve had taken, especially not now that the clock was ticking. He couldn’t know how long it would take for the guards to decide to line up the prisoners—sooner rather than later, once the fighting had died down—and he couldn’t exactly cover his tracks when he was trudging through drifts this deep.

He bit down on the _what ifs_ and reassured himself that this had been a good plan. Was still a good plan.

His cheeks burned from the wind, his throat raw from heaving in lungfuls of frigid air. Loud cracks split the air in the distance, but he didn’t know whether it was gunfire or the trees freezing or something else entirely. He didn’t even know what a rifle would sound like echoing through the open landscape, or how to discern it from any other noise he might have heard as he ran. He didn’t slow down and hoped he never had to find out.

A moment more of running had him hearing footsteps, and he froze in place to listen. He thought that perhaps he’d imagined it, wondered if it would be unwise to call for him, before the sound reappeared behind him and to his left. Tony whirled around, relief evident on his face for exactly long enough for him to recognize the beige guard uniform before he was tackled into the snow. Tony yelped, twisting mid-air in an attempt to get away, and he landed hard on his side before smashing an elbow into the man’s nose. The guard growled, otherwise undeterred by the blood streaming down his face, and cuffed Tony in the ear. It set his ears ringing, and he barely avoided the man’s next punch, which struck the ground harmlessly next to his head.

Physically, the was no bigger than Tony, and while he was certainly healthier and better fed, Tony still had the advantage in terms of muscle from all the exercise he got working the camps. Using that to his advantage, he shoved a knee up between them and kicked him off, scrambling to his feet in an attempt to get some distance between them.

The guard caught him around the ankle, shouting obscenities, and Tony lost his balance, crashing back into the sullied snow. He pushed himself up while Tony tried to force the air back into his lungs, and Tony curled an arm around his head protectively when the man drew back for a well-aimed kick. Instead he stopped, a surprised noise escaping him as his gaze settled on something behind Tony. For one blindingly terrifying moment, he was sure that another guard had heard them shouting and come running.

And then the guard was punched squarely in the face, shattering his already bleeding nose, before a well-placed knee to the gut, and elbow to the back of the skull put him into the ground.

Finally Steve turned, panting harshly and wiping the falling snow from his eyes. Tony would have cried, he was so relieved, and maybe said something smart, if his heart wasn’t still roaring at a million miles a minute. Steve gave a little apologetic shrug and took his arm at the elbow, urging him to follow.

“The further we can get before they find this one, the better,” he said simply. Tony couldn’t help but agree.

“Lead on, then,” Tony huffed. He prayed that Steve recalled the route to the train tracks as well as he promised. Steve seemed sure of himself, though, immediately pulling Tony off to the right. If they were lucky, they would be able to find it before the guards found them.

 

Steve sat, back pressed into the indented, hollowed trunk of a large tree, curved enough to block the wind and keep out the snow, and Tony settled next to him for the wait. Morning and noon passed, and still the train hadn’t come. Steve began to worry, though he wouldn’t admit it, that he’d gotten the wrong time or the wrong date or the wrong place. But no, he was _certain_ this was the right place and the right time. He tracked his way through the days he’d spent in the camps, maybe he’d lost a day, maybe he’d miscounted—

Tony shifted beside him, trying to get warm.

“They’re not coming.” His voice was quiet, accepting, as though he were talking about the cold, or what they’d do for dinner. He shivered. Silently, Steve wondered if maybe they _weren’t_ coming, and he remembered Fury’s orders: _Tony Stark is not to fall back with the Soviets. At any and all costs, get him out of Soviet control._

Control. Like they were playing a game, and Tony Stark and Steve Rogers were just different pieces to put in play. Steve didn’t doubt for a second that Fury would sacrifice a bishop to take out the queen.

“It’ll come,” Steve assured. Even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. Tony leaned closer, however infinitesimal, as though he believed it any more than Steve did, “it’ll come.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, dragging the light and what little perceived warmth it lent away with it. And though they waited through the night, the train never came.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More specific, partly spoiler-ish trigger warnings in the notes at the end of the chapter. Those who are squeamish may want to look.
> 
> Stay on the look out for the final chapter, it should be up soon.

They’d waited much too long.

“There’s a town a few miles from here,” Tony said. His knees creaked as he stood, aching from so long without moving, and he brushed the snow from his coat. He fixed Steve with a weary look. “It’s also the first place they’ll look.” Steve nodded. He knew that.

But what choice did they have?

“There’s another rail line that runs through it. That’s one’s active,” Steve said. He could very clearly picture the small, railroad track markings on the map he’d studied. They’d eliminated that method of escape as too high-risk before he’d been assigned to this mission. He glanced at Tony, and he seemed to be thinking the same. “That’s where we’ll go.”

“They’ll catch us.”

“Maybe not, with this weather,” Steve said.

“We can’t get there on foot before they widen their search.”

“We won’t be traveling on foot,” Steve said. Tony shot him a glance, silently asking what his plan was, and Steve expounded, “There are cars that run from camp to Izhma every day, aren’t there? If we use the storm for cover, we can hop a car.” His voice was so certain, Tony almost wanted to believe it. But then he remembered that they were dead if they didn’t try, and a small chance of success seemed a lot more promising than becoming a human icicle.

“You’re crazy.” The thought of lying dead in the snow for god knows how long sent a chill through him. They’d once come across a man, frozen stiff after an escape attempt months earlier, lying less than a hundred yards from the camp. It wasn’t pretty. “Then again, crazy’s worked so far.” Tony glanced back toward the tracks, as though offering their train one more chance to show, “…more or less.”

Tony trailed behind Steve as quietly as he could, watching around every corner for a sign of the guards, and glancing behind them often. The wind helped, whipping new snow into the holes their boots punched in the snow almost as quickly as they moved, but Tony worried about their tracks the whole way, anyway. It was difficult to see where they were walking. Tony had to resist the urge to fist his hands in the back of Steve’s jacket just to avoid losing him; instead, he stepped carefully behind him using his footprints as guides.

He hated to go back, especially so soon after successfully getting away, and every step closer put him further on edge. Steve appeared to share the sentiment, slowing considerably as they drew nearer and nearer to the road to Izhma.

Steve held up a fisted hand just at the tree line, silently signaling that Tony stop. The wind was howling, sending up eddies of snow so thick he could barely see his hand beside his face, but if he stared hard enough, he could definitely make out the dark form that could only be the car. He glanced back, to make sure Tony was still with him, and even in the almost total white-out, he could make out Tony’s cheeky grin.

With a smile of his own threatening the corners of his mouth, and a spike of nervous adrenaline in his chest, Steve ducked low and started out from the trees. The truck had a high-backed trailer, covered thick canvas to keep the snow out. His back hit the truck a moment before Tony joined him, and instantly he linked his hands together, offering Tony a boost up. The truck’s back hinged opened horizontally, but even if it wasn’t padlocked, they wouldn’t want to go that route in case someone came along. It would be much easier to spot the large door of the trailer moving than the two men crawling up. Climbing up and peeling back the canvas to get inside would be much safer.

“You first, hurry up,” Steve urged. Tony was already stepping into the lift to hoist himself up, falling cleanly over the top of the barrier. It was probably his imagination, but Steve could have sworn he heard voices over the wind. He wasn’t going to hang around to find out.

Steve was halfway up himself, when suddenly Tony was in front of him, trying to climb back out. “What the hell are you—” Steve cut off the whisper harshly, planting a hand on his chest to stop him. When Tony ignored him, he did all he could think to do and hooked an arm around Tony’s neck, yanking him back inside.

The panicked, desperate noise that Tony made would have been enough to stop him in his tracks, had he not already been falling into the back of the truck. He hit the ground far too early, and it gave underneath him like no wooden floor should.

The smell hit him a moment later and suddenly he understood why Tony was so eager to get out. It was something he knew would never leave him, the smell of a mass grave, from the moment he came across the camps in the war he’d known. He was hit with the same feeling of dread that came over him every time he encountered a body, and Steve recoiled. For now, there were more important things to worry about. It was better in the cold, but he’d never been this close. It took everything he could manage to force down the roil of nausea when Steve rolled over, tried to force from his mind exactly what—who he’d landed on and, more forcefully this time, pulled Tony back down away from the exit.

“Oh god,” Steve gasped. He regretted it immediately, the smell and taste filling his mouth and making him gag again. Tony was gripping the side of the car as though afraid he would lose it, eyes screwed shut.

“Please,” Tony pleaded. “I can’t –” All of the color was gone from his face, he was trying desperately hard not to vomit.

“I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry. You know we don’t have any choice. Just don’t look, it’ll be okay,” Steve murmured. He placed a hand on the back of Tony’s neck, trying to offer some kind of comfort, or a distraction. Steve was almost certain he could hear men outside, over the howling of the wind. “But we’ve got to be quiet, at least until we start moving, okay?” A faint nod, and then Tony was taking deep breaths—through the mouth, thankfully, he had enough sense about him—and trying to calm.

Steve kept his eyes fixed firmly on the cloth cover of the car, pointedly not looking at the mass of empty eyes staring back at them. He found himself wishing he was a better Christian, maybe he would be able to find the words, but there was no way honor them all. He didn’t even know them. Still Steve found himself mumbling a little prayer. Tony made a little noise of approval, gaze fixed so intensely on Steve’s shoulder that he could almost imagine the phantom warmth spreading through the spot.

The car gave a little lurch—he hadn’t even heard the driver’s door slam, the sound swallowed to the wind—and Steve steadied Tony with a hand on his shoulder, his other hand against the wall to hold his balance. After a few minutes of riding, Steve was starting to worry about the pallor of Tony face, so he reached up to unhook a corner of the burlap cover.

The cold was more than welcome relief as it swept fresh air through the car. He could almost pretend that they couldn’t smell it anymore, and the harsh white light from outside illuminated the car enough that it felt just a little bit less like a tomb. Tony gave him a grateful look, inching unsteadily closer to the hole.

“I know him,” Tony blurted suddenly. His eyes flicked down and then away. He had a wild, panicked look on his face as he shifted into the light. Steve barely contained a flinch, because that was the last thing they needed, and tightened his hold on Tony’s shoulder.

“Tony, don’t…”

“I—I worked with him. Them. Most of them.” His voice cracked, eyes flicking back into the car without permission, and this time Steve was certain Tony was going to be sick. He kept it together, though by what force Steve wasn’t sure, and pressed his forehead to the wall, eyes pinched shut. “I liked him,” he said much quieter, “he was nice.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. What else was there? He was used to offering condolences to soldiers and their families. People who’d known exactly what they’d signed up for or what to expect. Tony hadn’t asked for this.

Tony’s laugh was mirthless. “Don’t apologize. It’s not _your_ fault.” Steve paused. There was something in his voice, the way he’d said it, that wouldn’t let the comment slide.

“It’s not your fault either,” Steve said. Tony stiffened, marginally, and Steve knew he was on to something. "You know that, right?”

“’Course I do,” Tony said. “They dug their own graves. I’m just the guy _sitting on them_.” He spit the words like poison on his tongue, and Steve swore.

“They’d do the same. And you know it,” Steve said. “ _You live today, I live tomorrow_ , remember?”

“Die,” Tony said.

“What?” Tony hummed noncommittally.

“You _die_ today, I _die_ tomorrow,” he said, “get it right, Rogers.” And, okay, he was making a joke. Good. Better than nothing, anyway. Steve grabbed his shoulder, boundaries be damned, and squeezed.

“Just…” Steve kept his hold steady, not sure if it was helping, not sure what else to do, “try not to think about it.” Tony was quiet for a very long time.

“I’m all right,” Tony said, finally. Or maybe he’d imagined it, quiet as it was, it just as well could have been the wind. Steve watched him for a few seconds—uncertain—but he wasn’t looking any better. He couldn’t blame him. Steve was a soldier, and he’d seen all kinds of horrible things. They never got any better, but it did get easier, if only marginally.

“We don’t have far to go,” Steve said. He nudged Tony’s arm in what he thought was a reassuring gesture. “Just a few more minutes. We’ll walk the rest of the way.” Steve shifted closer, carefully as he could, to sit behind Tony where he could see the trees passing by.

He pulled the window a little wider, just enough that he could keep an eye out for road signs or any indication that they were approaching the town, and was rewarded with a face full of snow. Tony shivered, huddling a little closer, but kept his eyes closed.

Steve watched the snow kicking up in mounds, sticking to the sides of trees and stones with the speed of the wind, and was suddenly very thankful that they’d decided to make the trip by car. He couldn’t even tell if snow was still falling, or if it was only the wind blowing the fresh snow around. In this weather, it would have taken a lot longer.

Maybe too long.

A wooden stake at the side of the road caught his attention, and he stared at it through the blowing snow. It looked too tall to be a mile marker, and he thought maybe he could see a broken sign in the snow at its base—

The car jerked to the left, its tires spinning in the fresh snow for a moment before it caught traction and lurched forward again. Steve caught Tony before he could fall over completely. If the car was changing course, that settled it.

“We’re getting close. Come on.” Steve stood unevenly, one hand on the door to steady himself. Tony made no move to follow. Steve grabbed his jacket sleeve with his free hand, tugging to gain Tony’s attention. “Get up, Tony. Time to go.” This time, Tony allowed himself to be pulled shakily to his feet.

“When we drop, don’t move. They won’t go back for a corpse. Try and roll into it. ” Steve made sure Tony was looking at him, made sure he him nod in agreement, before he was hoisting himself over the top and tucking into a roll. The landing was softer than he’d expected—they could thank the blizzard for that—and the car didn’t so much as slow down. The driver may not have even seen them fall. He watched the car as it rattled off into the blizzard, reluctant to let himself feel safe too soon.

The sound of retching pulled him back. He found Tony doubled over in the snow, a few feet away, and instantly moved to touch. He hesitated, not sure if the gesture would be welcome. Tony heaved again, painfully, and Steve decided he didn’t care, putting a hand on Tony’s back and the other lacing their fingers as best he could manage in thick gloves. He didn’t bother telling him it was all right, because it wasn’t, but Tony didn’t pull away either, and he counted that as a win.

“—sorry, I—” Steve felt his heart drop, because Tony was actually apologizing, and god, he was crying, swiping his eyes with one trembling glove and trying to pull himself together, “—sorry, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. Just don’t,” Steve said.

“You’re not—”

“I’m used to it,” Steve said more forcefully this time. It was a lie, a damn dirty lie, but that didn’t matter. He grabbed Tony’s chin, turning it toward him to meet his eye, his tone much gentler when he said, “That’s not something to be proud of, Tony.” Steve tightened his hold on his torso, momentarily, and Tony let out a strangled sob. “You knew them. It’s okay to mourn them, too.”

Eventually the retching stopped, and while he was still breathing like he’d run a marathon, it was an improvement. Steve knew, intellectually, that this was bad. That Tony had just thrown up the last meal he was likely to have for a while, and he had probably already been dehydrated, let alone now. Still, the shaky smile Tony sent his way when Steve finally offered him a hand was enough to put his mind to rest, and he ushered them to the fork in the road. The car had taken the right road—Steve didn’t know where that lead—and the town was to the left. Tony answered his question before he could even ask.

“I’m… fine. Let’s go. Just…” Steve didn’t pull away, offering an arm for support, and Tony, for once, didn’t protest. “Thanks.”

Before he could even ask, Tony was brushing him off.

“No problem,” Steve replied earnestly. He let Tony go first, albeit reluctantly, before he could voice a protest. He could already see the smoke from the town. They’d be there in no time. Steve pulled them off onto the side of the road, but the snow was already piling into unbearable mounds, and even if the roads were covered as well, it was still easier going.

He doubted anyone would be looking for them yet in the middle of a blizzard, and hopefully the townsfolk would be too busy scraping ice off their eyelashes to notice that they were—quite obviously—wearing gulag uniforms with the numbers torn off.

He tucked his hands under his arms, stubbornly ignoring the chill.

Tony stumbled but caught himself before he got a face full of snow. When Steve caught up to him, he saw why. One of the railroad tracks—probably abandoned, but he couldn’t be sure—was buried beneath the snow.

The tracks curved off into the trees, angled toward town, and if not for the snow he might have been able to see where it went exactly. It might be safer to follow the tracks than to head into town directly, since they could guarantee no one saw them arrive that way. Tony seemed to be having the same train of thought.

“You first,” he said. Tony nodded toward the looming piles of snow, “I’ll follow in your footsteps.” Steve gave him an unimpressed look, so he added, “I’m sorry, I thought you were here to help?” For all that he tried—and damn did he try—Steve couldn’t hold back a smile at that. He settled for shoving Tony as he passed, but still taking point.

After the initial mound at the side of the road, the going wasn’t so bad. One upside to the horrible wind was that every so often there were huge patches of ice with no snow at all, wiped clean by the gales faster than the snow could fall.

There was only one train on the eastern bound tracks, and Steve stopped to point toward one of the cars that had been marked with red paint. It was just hanging off the platform.

“See that marked car?” Tony nodded. “Get in and wait for me. I’m going to go get us some better clothes.”

“I’ll go with you,” Tony said immediately. He tried to follow, but Steve put out an arm, halting him.

“No. If they’re looking for us at all they’ll be looking for _two_ escaped prisoners. We’d be safer split up while we’re in town. Not to mention that two people are more noticeable anyway, something we _don’t want to be_ when we’re stealing clothes.” Steve carried right on over Tony’s protests. “If you really want to help, you’ll be here when I get back.”

“Steve—”

“Tony.” Steve thought Tony was going to press the issue, but he just rolled his eyes, glancing between the car and the town.

“Fine,” he snapped. He spun on his heel petulantly, jogging over toward the marked car. There was no one in sight, so he opened the door, and slipped inside only after making of show of getting in for Steve. The door rolled shut behind him, and Steve climbed up onto the platform.

They were in the middle of a blizzard, so Steve couldn’t say that he was surprised that there were no clothes conveniently hanging on clothes lines. Still, this could be tricky. He didn’t have any money, so he wouldn’t be able to buy them fair. Luckily, the platform looked abandoned, and he could only imagine that the weather was the cause. Steve followed the road further into town, hoping that the trend would continue.

It did, somewhat, though not as much as he hoped. A storm like this would have had New Yorkers claiming natural disaster, but most of the people he passed didn’t bat an eye at the storm. Some were carrying groceries, a few toted children along. One man laboriously pushed a cart through the drifts, pausing every few feet when it got stuck in the too-deep snow. They kept their heads down against the wind, though, for which he was grateful.

He only realized where the road was headed when he stopped at the town hall’s steps.

The town hall was the most likely building in the area to hold the commune’s stores—on top of being a center for the community, it was also the largest building he’d seen yet. This was probably the best place to find clothing. It was also the most likely place to get him caught, but, well. He wasn’t exactly laden with options, he reminded himself as he pulled open the door. It slammed shut behind him, caught by the wind, and the sound echoed loudly through the room, fading quickly to silence. Steve froze. If anyone was nearby, they definitely would have heard the noise.

Several seconds passed, and no one appeared, so he thanked his good luck and kicked the snow from his boots. The front lobby of the building large, with an old stone floor that did nothing to help keep the place warm. There were fliers on the walls with job notifications and public announcement printed in neat Russian. They lined the walls going back toward the hallway, and Steve followed them further into the building.

He was acutely aware of how his boots clicked against the floor. Steve tried to tread lightly, listening carefully for the sound of anyone approaching. There would be no explaining his presence here—especially not so close to Izhma, and they needed to avoid any complications altogether.

It was the second door he picked that actually had supplies, and honestly, the town’s stores were pitiful. The winter was obviously not treating them well, and it reflected on their provisions. There wasn’t near enough food in here to last through the winter, and Steve only hoped for their sakes that they had more stored elsewhere. He didn’t have time to dwell, though. There was a pile of clothes in the back, and Steve made his way directly to it.

Most of the items were not near warm enough to be worn this time of year, but the bottom of the pile held a few coats and boots. What they had for footwear was fine—there would be no point in taking them, so he shoved the boots aside and set to looking for coats large enough for them. Most of them were child-sized, and Steve tried to ignore the implications behind the abandoned clothing as he picked out two that would fit them fairly well. The sleeves may be too small, but there was really nothing that could be done about it, and he didn’t have time to be picky. They’d just wear them over their old coats.

Exactly at that moment, as though to emphasize the point, he heard a latch click down the hall. Hoping to God that he had imagined the noise, he immediately crossed to the window, clutching the coats tightly to his chest. It opened smoothly, blowing a gust of cold in his face that made him shudder violently. Pushing past it, he hefted himself over the windowsill, dropping feet-first into the snow blown against the building in drifts.

The street was empty. He pulled the window closed and trudged on.

 

He’d made it a block before the shouting started.

Steve recoiled from the noise. The sound of it traveled high over the wind, and he whirled, heart in his throat, trying to locate the where it was coming from. He’d expected men closing in on him with rifles, but as far as he could see, the street was empty. He wasted no time getting off the road, pressing his body flat against a shop with boarded windows.

He listened, and the noise came again. Steve followed it to the edge of the street and peeked cautiously around the corner, in the opposite direction from the tracks.

There were eight guards, uniforms stark and new against the haggard appearance of the man they surrounded. Steve recognized him; the man from before, who had been pushing the cart. His cart now lay overturned in the road, half crushed under the wheels of one of the camp’s trucks and contents spilled all over the snow.

One of the guards was screaming at him, and he was shouting back, less out of defiance and more in misery over his ruined cart. The driver—Steve recognized him as one assigned to Gang One—fidgeted nervously, unsure whether he was going to be punished for the accident. He likely hadn’t seen the cart through the snow, or hadn’t been able to stop in time if he had.

It was clear which direction they’d been heading, though. That road could only lead to the train tracks, and once they arrived they would be sure to freeze the railways traveling to and from Izhma until the escapees were found. Steve scanned over the group, noted their progress clearing the wreckage.

The man with the cart had bought them some time, but not much.

Steve pulled away from the wall and sprinted back the way he came, slipping down a side alley. They needed to be on that train, and they needed to pray that it would depart before the guards could pull themselves together.

With a quick glance to be sure no one was watching, Steve pulled open the door to the car with the red graffiti, slipping inside as quietly as possible. He tossed the stack of clothes into the corner and then froze, dread washing over him when he registered the stillness of the car. Just to be sure, he whispered, “Tony?” into the silence.

No response. Steve swore. He’d _told_ him to stay!

Steve glanced back at the car door. Should he go look for him? And what if Tony were to return while Steve was away, and the train tried to depart without him? The guards were out there, and Tony could easily run into them accidentally, get himself caught or worse.

The train groaned and gave a slight jerk forward as each of the cars lurched a few inches and then came to rest again, and Steve cursed. They’d be departing any time now, and there was no way he could leave Tony behind. Steve stood, grabbing the stack of clothes from where he’d dropped them, just as the car started to creep forward. He tucked them under his arm, fuming, and threw the door open with the other hand.

He was just about to jump down when a figure rounded the corner, just far enough that he wasn’t quite sure, but—

Steve groaned. That was definitely Tony, the expression on his face was manic—was everything a _game_ to him—and he seemed to have spotted Steve because he was making wild gestures he could only imagine to mean he should stay in the car. A moment later another man rounded the platform corner, and then two more, all screaming murder. Not guards, but regular townspeople, and Steve wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. At least they had no rifles. He threw the door open a little wider, grabbing onto the frame for support.

The train was picking up speed now, for a moment Steve wasn’t sure that Tony would be able to catch up, but then he was vaulting the guardrail and rounding the platform. At this distance, Steve could clearly make out the two loaves of bread his had tucked under one arm. Anger surged within him when he realized where Tony had gone, and at the thought that anyone could _be_ so reckless. But then Tony was reaching out for him, and they were running out of platform, and the only important thing was grabbing his hand and getting him on the train safely.

Steve grabbed Tony’s forearm and yanked at the same time that Tony jumped, pulling them both into the car. The men chasing him slowed to a stop on the platform, still screaming. Steve was just about to pull away when movement behind them caught his eye. A woman, rifle cocked over one shoulder, had just rounded the same corner the rest of the men had, strolling more calmly than anyone in pursuit should be, like a cat toying with a mouse. It _couldn’t_ be her, because no one had that kind of response time, but his breath caught in his throat all the same.

The loaves of bread fell to the floor, rolling into the corner of the car, and Tony kicked the door shut on its rollers. Steve caught one last glimpse of red hair before the door slammed shut.

Tony laughed, and Steve felt a righteous anger wash over him, momentarily distracted. He knew he shouldn’t be this angry, but he had been terrified that Tony wasn’t going to make it. Steve grabbed Tony by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet, “What the _hell_ were you thinking?” he shouted. Some of the mirth slid from Tony’s face, displaced by defiance, and something else Steve couldn’t quite identify.

“I was thinking that we’re starving here—” Tony started. Steve didn’t let him finish,

“He could have killed you, or you could have been left behind, and then—”

“But I wasn’t Steve, so drop it—”

“No, Tony!” he shouted. Tony’s mouth clicked shut quickly, cutting off whatever retort he’d had, and Steve felt all the anger rush out of him at once. “Just… don’t do it again,” he said. Tony nodded. Steve was thankful that, for once, he was taking things seriously.

Tony cleared his throat quietly, drawing Steve back, and he realized that first, they were very close, and second, he still had an iron grip on Tony’s shoulders. “Sorry,” Steve said. He dropped his arms to his sides, “I—sorry.” He took a half-step back, trying to put some space between them, but Tony’s hand darted out, stopping his retreat. Tony met his gaze, something searching in his expression and for that, Steve stilled.

Whatever he’d been looking for, he must have found it. Tony pressed their mouths urgently together, as though afraid he’d lose his nerve. When Steve didn’t pull away, lifting his hands to settle on Tony’s waist, he pressed further, licking at Steve’s bottom lip, seeking entrance. Steve parted his lips in silent permission, letting out a little gasp when Tony plunged inside, kissing him for all he was worth.

He was light headed and more than a little giddy when they finally broke for air. Tony pressed his forehead into Steve’s shoulder, leaning against him like he didn’t trust himself, and let out a little gusty laugh. The train gave a little jerk and Tony’s hand flew out to steady them against the wall, guiding them both to the car floor.

“That was—” Steve breathed, searching for the right words. Nothing came to him, so he just leaned over and stole another kiss, half to stop himself from having to finish the phrase, half to see if Tony would let him.

Tony hummed in agreement. He realized he was rubbing slow circles into Tony’s shoulder, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, and Steve certainly wasn’t going to stop. Tony sighed and turned his head to kiss Steve’s hand in a gesture so intimate it made Steve’s heart ache. Tony rolled out of his reach then, leaned over to retrieve the two loaves from where they’d fallen, and handed one to Steve.

He cleared his throat. “I know it was stupid,” Tony admitted. His gaze was not quite meeting Steve’s eyes. For a moment Steve thought he would continue, but when the silence just stretched between them, Steve realized that was as close to an apology as Tony Stark was capable of giving on the matter. He accepted the loaf, tearing off a piece for now and setting the rest aside.

“It’s okay,” he said. And that was it. Steve thought that they could have gone back to normal after that. It was irresponsible not to, because in a world of inconvenient timing this took the prize, but Steve found that even if this hadn’t been hanging over them—not awkward, but uncertain and new—he wouldn’t have wanted to go back, anyway.

So when the sunlight peeking through the seams of the car started to fade and Tony started pulling crates aside to clear a space away from the door to lay down, Steve went to lay down beside him, not just because it was warm, but because he _wanted_ to.

Tony made room for him soundlessly, a warm presence in the near-complete darkness, and when Steve reached out to him, he couldn’t resist a smile when Tony shuffled willingly into the embrace. He could tell Tony was thinking hard about something, but trusted that he’d never hesitated to speak his mind before and certainly wasn’t going to start now. If it was important, all he would have to do was wait, and Tony would bring it up in his own time. Steve tightened his hold on Tony’s shoulders, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

“Aren’t there rules on fraternizing with the mission?” Tony asked. He was aiming for teasing, Steve could tell, but the question fell quietly short. Steve was silent for a long time, enough that Tony tried to slip away, put some space between them, but Steve only tightened his grip.

“There are,” he said, “but there are also rules about stranding men behind enemy lines. I think it’s safe to say I’m off mission.”

“I—”

“Tony, stop talking.”

To his surprise, Tony actually listened. He _wasn’t_ surprised, a moment later, when a hand crept under his shirt. It stopped there, and when Steve didn’t do anything in response Tony paused, like he wasn't sure how to make the words come out.

“I’m not sick.”

“What?” The hand twitched an aborted movement, to move closer or maybe pull away, he wasn’t sure. Instead, it stayed where it was, and even in the darkness Steve could feel Tony’s defiant stare.

“In the head. There’s nothing wrong with me. The guards… there were others, in the camp, and the guards said it was disgusting and unnatural, but I’m not…” Steve huffed, as gust of air somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His skin was on fire, there was no way Tony couldn’t feel it under his hand, radiating tension, and of course as soon as he tried not to, all he could think of was Tony’s lips on his.

“I know,” Steve said, “Course I know that. I’ve seen you… I—” Steve didn’t know what to say, so he just kissed him again. It was like stepping in front of the heater after a lifetime in the cold, and this time Tony didn’t hesitate. He just moved into the empty space between them, sliding cold hands over bare skin in teasing touches.

Steve sucked Tony’s bottom lip between his teeth, the noise he made was just obscene, and it sent a little thrill through him. Tony’s hands slid lower, edging beneath the waistband of his pants, and Steve sucked in a breath, hips canting forward of their own volition. He dropped a hand to undo the front of Tony’s pants.

“Ever done this before?” Tony asked.

“I was in the army,” Steve said. He wasn’t actually sure that Tony knew what that implied. Most likely he did. They probably weren’t so different. He’d done a lot of things, not all of which he was proud of, but when he pulled Tony closer to him, revealing little pieces of skin inch by inch and reveling in the noises he made in response to the cold touch, this certainly wasn’t one of them.

Steve kissed Tony again, gentler this time. It was meant to be comfortable and slow, but Tony surged forward and deepened the kiss, all wet heat and satisfaction. _God_ , Tony could kiss, desire curling inside him until all he could focus on was the press of their bodies together.

He hadn’t noticed Tony sneaking a hand between them, and when he grabbed hold of Steve’s cock in a firm hand he let out a startled gasp, breaking the kiss, and Tony whined but let him go. The car was freezing but Tony’s hand was warm and he couldn’t help the little thrusts of the hips he made when Tony didn’t move. Instead he pushed Tony’s clothes aside and took him in hand, swallowing the little gasp it earned him, and started a slow, uneven pace that Tony hesitantly began to follow.

Steve’s orgasm snuck up on him, peaking with a litany of _god Steve god_ that made something in his chest uncurl, and when the tide finally breaks he dropped a head onto Tony’s shoulder.

Steve didn’t come down for a long time, because he hadn’t had it that good in forever, but when he did he was lying on his back, Tony curled half on top of him. He was half-asleep and a warm, heavy presence so Steve didn’t try to move him, just raised a hand to tread through Tony’s hair. Even in the darkness, he could tell that Tony was smiling.

“I saw the Black Widow,” Steve mumbled. Tony’s smile dropped right off his face, and Steve instantly regretted bringing this up now. He leaned up to look at Steve, even though Steve knew he couldn’t see anything in the dark.

“When?”

“Chasing you,” Steve said. “I think it was her.”

Tony cursed. “That’s—fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Steve laced his fingers through Tony’s hair again, and he reluctantly rested his head back on Steve’s shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll stay one step ahead of her.”

Tony nodded against his shoulder, staying close. He was warm, warmer than he'd felt in a long time, and Steve let the contact ease him off to sleep.

 

 

Steve felt like he had only just closed his eyes before Tony was shaking him awake. The steady rattle of the cars beneath them was gone. It took a moment for him to get his bearings, and it didn’t help that Tony was trying to hassle him into his clothes.

“What—Tony, what are you doing?” He groaned and rolled over, half-going along with it because it was too much effort not to do so.

“The train’s stopped. I think they’re searching the cars,” Tony said. That certainly got Steve’s attention. Tony threw Steve’s coat at his head, already tearing up and working the remaining bread into the pocket of his own jacket. Steve went over to one of the tiny holes in the car, peering out. He couldn’t see anyone in the tiny field of vision. He could only see about a ten-foot field in the largest hole, but it looked like they had been stopped in another train yard. It could have been paranoia, but he thought maybe he could hear the sound of the cars being opened further down the line.

“We have to go,” Steve said. He spun around, ignoring Tony’s sharp _‘You think?’_ in favor of evaluating their exits. They could go out the car door, and hope that no one was looking in their direction. If they were unlucky… they’d probably be shot. “Out the bottom,” Steve decided. He ran back around to where they’d cleared a place behind the crates to lay down and dropped to his knees, searching through the boards for loose parts.

“Help me!” he hissed. Steve got a finger in one of the knotted boards and yanked. When it came up far enough to slip his whole hand through, he did, pulling harder now that he had more leverage. The board came up half-way before it snapped in half, but the boards next to I seemed knocked loose in the process. He could see supports from the train, but clear as day the snow beneath it—they would probably be able to work their way out if they could clear a large enough hole. Tony seemed to get the idea, dropping beside him to work.

It was nerve wracking, thinking any second they could reach their car, and Steve gave up worrying about his cut and bleeding hands after the first few boards. Finally, they cleared a large enough hole, and Steve helped Tony through first, balancing on the supports beneath the train.

The door slammed open as Steve was crawling through, and he reached out to pull a tarp over their hole and the boards they’d pulled free—he’d hoped to move a crate over top, but this would have to do. He motioned for Tony to be quiet, and he watched the two pairs of boots in front of the car disappear as they hoisted themselves up into the car.

They tracked footsteps above them with their eyes as the men worked quickly through the car. It sounded as though some of the larger crates were being opened, and then the footsteps stopped. There was a mumbled conversation, and then the boots dropped down in front of the car again. The door slammed shut, and they started off to the next car.

Tony’s head dropped back in relief, and Steve let go of the tarp to steady himself against the train’s underbelly. He waited nearly ten minutes before he decided it was safe to speak, and that no one else would likely be coming.

“Hold on to me.” He worked his way over toward Tony, grabbing one of the struts for support. “I’m gonna have a look.” Tony braced himself and grabbed the shoulders of Steve’s jacket, which was at least enough to steady him if his grip slipped, as Steve leaned down to look.

At first all he saw was another cargo train and what was probably another set of track behind that. When he swiveled in the other direction though, there was a platform and an entirely different looking train. It had the same cargo cars in the middle, but the cars at the front and back were different—shorter, with windows—and after staring for a moment he realized that there were people boarding.

Young, fashionable people, to be exact, and they were the only people in sight. Steve leaned down a little further—just to be certain that the men searching the train had passed—and although Tony hissed at him for doing so, there was no one in sight.

Steve leaned back up, and Tony released him.

“There’s a passenger car over there, heading west,” Steve whispered. “I think we should board it.”

“ _Are you nuts,_ ” Tony said. Steve didn’t point out that he’d been calling him nuts since they’d met, and everything had worked out so far. “We should wait until we’re rolling and climb back inside.”

“They look rich,” Steve continued. “Socialites, I think, I mean I recognize the clothes. They look French.”

“Oh, well, if they _look_ French—”

“I’m just saying, the only way anyone gets through the curtain is if they’re _let_ through.” Steve glanced over at Tony. “If they’re rich, or… important. Besides, they’re probably still searching for us, and we were seen boarding a cargo train—” Tony had the decency to look sheepish, at least, “—so I think it’s a safe bet they’ll _keep_ looking.”

“And you’re thinking who would suspect the prisoners on the passenger train?” Tony asked. Steve shrugged. “They’ll be searching there too."

“Probably,” Steve agreed. It was an opportunity to cross the border out of the USSR though, without having to figure out how to sneak by the Border Guards on foot. They needed to try.

Tony sighed. “Okay. You’re the man with a plan. You want to go first?”

“No, we don’t want to be seen together. I’ll wait a bit, and follow after.”

“Okay,” Tony said. He dropped into the snow, glancing both directions. “Meet you on the platform.” And then he disappeared. Steve counted to one hundred before doing anything, straining to hear any sort of noise beforehand. Finally, he dropped down. There was no one in sight, except for a few stragglers on the platform who weren’t paying him any mind.

Steve followed Tony’s footprints in the snow, walking casually as he could and reminding himself that he probably looked like nothing more than a rail worker to nearly anyone who saw him. He climbed up onto the platform with no one so much as glancing in his direction, except for Tony, who was lingering on the platform a few feet away. Steve nodded toward the train, gave a quick glance to see that no ticket workers were watching, and stepped aboard. There were a few people milling about in the hall, carrying luggage to their respective rooms. Tony stepped up behind him a few moments later.

“Anyone notice you?” Tony asked. Steve shook his head. As soon as Steve saw that Tony was following, he walked to the end of the passenger car. They passed by several rooms, some occupied and some still waiting to be filled. The cars toward the back seemed to be cheaper, without individual rooms, but what Steve was interested in was the luggage cars.

Hopefully, they’d be able to hide out there, at least until the car got rolling and all the tickets had been checked. Then, maybe, they’d be able to move to a more comfortable seat without being noticed. Steve pulled the door to the luggage car open with confidence, ushering Tony inside. Steve cut straight through the first car, and then the second to stop finally in the luggage car closest to the front of the train. Between each car was a small hallway with an iron door like the one he’d boarded through, and Steve had tested them both as he passed—just in case—to find they were unlocked. Hopefully they stayed that way. When Tony saw they were stopping, he wrinkled his nose but obediently followed Steve inside.

“Classy,” Tony said. Steve shrugged, already scoping out a place to hide. There was a reasonably high stack of luggage with just enough space against the wall that they’d be able to not only slip behind, but have access to the doorway on either side if need be.

He climbed back, motioning for Tony to follow, and then pulled one of the hanging racks of clothes—they _had_ to belong to more than one woman, no person needed that many coats—in front of them to block immediate view of their hiding spot. He crouched down and from where they were no one traveling in or out could see them.

The door to the luggage car opened twice, both times from the direction of the other luggage cars, and neither times did the person depositing luggage stay long. About ten minutes after the second visit, the train began to move. Tony and Steve sat for almost another ten minutes before Tony stood abruptly, stretching.

“Do we have to hide out here?” he asked.

“They’ll probably have someone checking tickets.”

“Not in the luxury cars.” Tony pointed out. He gestured to the door that would lead to the nearest first class carriage. “First class pays to not have that sort of inconvenience.”

“Well, it’s not like we can fake being first class,” Steve said. They were wearing borrowed clothes, jackets that hardly fit right, and nothing about them said luxury except, probably, Tony’s bravado. Tony hummed, jumping over the stacks of luggage to the other door. He ignored Steve’s hissing at him to stop and threw it open.

“Empty!” he called. Tony shot him a triumphant grin and disappeared inside.

Steve was going to kill him.

He jumped down, rushed over to the door and flung it open. It slammed against a bedpost, at the same moment that the door on the other end of the car opened.

The woman standing in the doorway was tiny and impeccably dressed. She blinked at them, glancing between Tony’s deer-in-the-headlights look and Steve’s obvious anger. Steve cooled his expression immediately, but was fairly certain she’d noticed anyway. Before he could make up an excuse, she was shutting the door behind her, smiling brightly.

“Oh, hello. I’m Jan.” She held out a hand, which Tony didn’t hesitate to shake. “Are you the gentlemen we’ll be splitting the car with?” She pulled off her expensive-looking coat and set it delicately on the bed, then pulled out a mirror from the pocket to check her makeup. Tony answered immediately, before Steve could deny it or claim they’d come in to the car by accident.

“That’s us,” he said. Steve wanted to clap a hand over his mouth, and only resisted because that would give them both away.

“Well, that’s funny, because we’re not sharing this car with anyone,” she replied. Dread washed over Steve, and by his expression Tony felt the same. “Never take the easy way when you’re making up a lie. They might be testing you,” she chided. She sent Tony a cute little smile, all teeth, and pulled out a tube of lipstick.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Steve said. “My brother wanted to see if he could get better seats without having to pay.” Steve grabbed Tony’s bicep, squeezing a little more tightly than necessary. “It was stupid.”

“That was much better,” she said. “You should leave the lying to him.” She snapped her compact shut, narrowing her eyes at them. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to report you to the conductor,” she said waspishly.

“Please don’t,” Tony said immediately. The guards were surely still outside, and if they weren’t, it wouldn’t be long after the conductor reported them.

She cracked a grin as though they were sharing a joke and laughed. “Ah, I was just kiddin’.” She waved a hand in their direction. “Your _faces_ though. Priceless.” The woman laughed again like they were having a wonderful time, and Steve hazarded a small smile, not wanting to seem too nervous.

“Um, thank you,” Steve said hesitantly. He mostly just wanted to get out of here. Damn Tony and his stupid recklessness. “We should go,” he said. Steve tugged Tony back toward the door, and Tony let himself be pulled along this time. He had his hand on the knob when she spoke again.

“You’re the escapee’s they’re looking for, right?” she called after them. They stilled, damn it, and that was all the answer she needed. “If you’re thinking about hiding in the luggage cars, that’s the first place they’ll check,” she said. “They told us to keep our valuables in our cars because they’re searching the luggage. Besides, even if they weren’t looking for escaped prisoners, security’s been tightened quite a bit. Too many people crossing over without permission. You’re much better off hiding in here.”

Tony brightened. “So you’ll help us hide?” he asked. She stared at him as though he’d just asked her if snow was white, and something about it instantly endeared her to him, at the same time giving him the impression that she would not be someone to cross. Although, hopefully, there would be only cooperation in their futures. Tony elbowed Steve, as if to _say told you so_.

“Of course. I’ll help, but we’re going to have to convince—” Whatever she’d been about to say was cut short, the car door opening once again. The blond man standing in the doorway looked startled to see them, and his hand flew instantly to his jacket. The click of the hammer of a gun pulling back is the next thing that Steve heard, and Jan turned to the noise. Her gaze landed on the pistol at the same time that Steve grabbed a handful of Tony’s shirt and yanked him backwards.

“Hank!” Jan snapped, and she didn’t sound worried or surprised, rather she sounded _chiding._ “Quit waving that around. And shut the door.” Steve’s forehead wrinkled slightly in confusion when she snatched the pistol from his hand, arm still in front of Tony’s chest to keep the distance between him and the door. His confusion only deepened when the man, Hank apparently, quickly followed her instruction without any fuss.

Tony could have been put-off by the apparent belief that he needed protecting—settled on endeared, instead—and huffed a little laugh at the absurdity of the situation, giving Steve’s arm a reassuring squeeze. Hank’s eyes flicked in his direction, and from the look on Hank’s face, he was just as confused as they were.

“What’re you going to do with this, huh?” Jan asked. She glanced down at the gun in her hand and then scoffed, as though the very idea offended her. “ _The safety’s on_!”

“Of course it’s—I was just trying to scare—they _broke into our car_!”

“Oh, shh. I invited them in,” she dismissed. “Why do you even have this? You’re not shooting anyone, and you know it.” She tossed the gun into drawer on the nightstand.

“Yeah, but _they don’t_ know that—you know what? Forget it.” He held his hands up in a show of surrender, then turned an exasperated expression on Jan. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“Don’t be such a baby, Hank,” she said. “This is…uh.”

“I’m Tony, and this is Steve.” Tony pointed at them each in turn, and Jan nodded approvingly while Hank blanched.

“ _You didn’t even know their names_ ,” Hank muttered. Still, when Tony offered him a hand, he shook it. Maybe it was just years of ingrained manners, maybe he wasn’t as upset by their presence as he let on. He stared confused at the cut on Tony’s hand for a moment, before turning a questioning look on Jan.

“They’re those two prisoners everyone’s gossiping about.” Hank jerked his hand back like he’d been burned, and while Jan chided him for being rude, Tony just laughed and threw himself onto the bed, toeing off his boots to crawl into the middle of the tiny bunk.

“ _Jan_ ,” Hank said. He looked almost like he didn’t know how to react, and Steve had to admit, the expression on his face was a little funny. Jan seemed to think so, because her expression was warring between a stubborn pout and a grin. He went to sit by Tony on the bed, because it seemed like they’d be staying for a while.

“ _Hank_.” They stared each other down, mimicking the exasperation in Hank's voice. Tony thought he saw Jan bat her eyelashes, maybe not, but finally Hank sighed, gathered a stack of files and books he’d set on the bed—eyeing them both warily all the while, and pointedly yanking a few crumpled sheets from beneath Tony—before he moved his work to the desk.

“Fine. I don’t know why I try.” He straightened the stack and sat down, clicking on a lamp. "There's no market for Soviet prison uniforms, you know."

"Yet," Jan corrected. She beamed at him, then turned to Steve and Tony. “So, where are you from?”

“Izhma,” Steve said.

Jan shook her head. “No, I mean originally.”

“What do you mean?”Steve asked.

She shrugged. “You have an accent.”

“I _do not_.” When both Jan and Tony’s hands came up, thumb and pointer fingers held a centimeter apart, Steve scowled.

“I didn’t notice,” Hank mumbled. He was still flipping through papers, hadn’t even bothered to look up, and he was so absorbed in the text that Steve had to wonder if he realized he had entered the conversation at all. It reminded Steve of Tony when he was working, somewhat.

“That’s because you’re American, honey.”

“So’s Steve—ah!” Steve elbowed him, and Tony shot him a warning look, rubbing the spot on his side. Steve returned the glare gladly. “What? She doesn’t care.”

Jan ignored the little exchange. “Really, American? How’d you get here?” Jan asked. “I mean, Hank got in because he’s with me, and they still give us all kinds of trouble.”

“All due respect, Ma’am, I’d rather not say.”

Jan wrinkled her nose. “I’ll forgive you if you stop calling me ma’am. I’m not _that_ old.”

“Of course,” Steve said. He watched while Tony poked through some of the belongings still on and around the bed, and considered saying something, but Jan didn’t seem to mind and he didn’t think he wanted to give Hank another reason to dislike them, so he let it slide. “Where is this train headed?”

“Paris,” Jan said. “I think they said it’d be three to four days, weather permitting. Hopefully no one will come looking before then. I don’t know where you’d hide. One in the bathroom…” She glanced around the room—Tony had found himself a stack of books that he was methodically flipping through and setting aside—and shrugged, “and under the blankets, maybe.” She squinted at the bed and added, “If they weren’t looking very hard.”

“Hey!” Tony grabbed a book and rolled onto his back, propping himself against the wall to read and sticking his feet under Steve’s thigh. “I wanted to read this,” Tony said. Steve glanced over. The title was _The Subatomic_ something, but the subtitle was some sort of science gibberish Steve couldn’t make out. “Banned book,” he explained. He glanced up excitedly, flipping to the prologue. “Couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“Oh, that’s one of Hank’s,” Jan beamed.

“I _know_ , I’m just borrowing it—”

“No, she means I wrote it,” Hank said. He leaned back in his chair and pointed to the byline. Tony flipped back to the cover, and the author was clearly listed as Henry Pym. “It’s probably too complicated for you, though. Try something else.” Tony bristled, and Steve dropped a hand on his shoulder, warning him not to rise to the bait. Tony glared at them both, before flipping back to the prologue in a huff.

“Knock it off, Hank. For all you know he’s a genius.” Tony huffed again, and Steve pinched him to keep him quiet. The _last_ thing they needed was Tony telling these people more about them than he already had. Regardless of how friendly they seemed to be, the less they knew about them the safer it would be for all of them. Jan cleared her throat and turned to Steve again.

“So… how come you have an accent but he doesn’t?” Jan asked. Steve got the feeling she was trying to break the awkward tension that was building between Tony and Hank. She rolled onto her stomach on the other bed, kicking her feet into the air.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Well, you’re brothers, aren’t you?” she prompted. For a moment Steve had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. She gave him a quizzical look, which he returned in kind.

“That was a lie,” Tony supplied, flipping a page. Steve recalled his earlier comment, and felt suddenly embarrassed.

“Oh, right,” he said. “No, Tony and I are just traveling together.”

Tony snorted, snapping the book shut, and tossed it onto the bed beside him. Steve glanced over in time to see him rolling his eyes and reaching for another book.

“Warned you,” Hank said. This time, there was no stopping Tony’s retort.

“Oh, it’s not _too difficult_ ,” he snapped, “It’s too _wrong_. When the hell was this published, anyway? The eighteen hundreds?”

“Well of course there are some inaccuracies, it was published nearly a decade ago,” Hank snapped, “but the fundamental idea is sound. It—”

“—reads like it should have been written in crayon!” Tony finished. Jan giggled at the put out look that crossed Hank’s face.

“Oh, please,” Hank scoffed, “everyone can criticize, but I highly doubt you could do better.”

“It’s not even my field and I could do better,” Tony snapped. Hank looked up from his work then, and Tony squared his jaw stubbornly.

Steve leaned over to Jan, not interested in watching the pissing contest. “Is he always like this?” Steve asked.

Jan waved a hand. “Only if he’s worried someone’s smarter than him,” she said breezily. Jan gave him a sweet smile, and then, “Want to play cards?”

Eventually, the heated argument led to a less heated discussion, and even that led to the two comparing notes, although Steve noticed Tony was careful to keep Hank from seeing nearly anything of the designs he had in his pocket. He didn’t know if he should be happy that Tony had trusted him enough to let him see them, or if that was simply because Tony knew he hadn’t understood them.

When the knock sounded on the door, Steve didn’t at first register what it meant. The second time it came, he jumped off the bed, tossing his cards into a pile.

“On the bed.” Jan dropped her voice to avoid being heard through the door. She grabbed Steve’s bicep, pulling him to a door in the corner and pushing him inside—it was a bathroom, so small he barely fit—and when Tony didn’t immediately move, she grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved. Jan ran to the other bed, grabbing the blanket and pillows in a frenzy, kicking Tony’s boots under the bed as an afterthought.

She threw the second comforter over the first, and then scattered the pillows all over the bed, finally stepping unevenly through the mess to crawl next to him. The knocking persisted, and she put a hand on top of his head and pushed him under the covers. It was a ridiculous arrangement, but they had nothing better.

“Jackets too, Hank,” she said. “ _The jackets_.” Tony felt another weight land on them, and Jan snuggled further into the mess. Her elbow was poking him in the chest, and honestly Tony thought he’d have enjoyed the arrangement a whole lot more if he didn’t have a knee in his thigh, too. “Tell them I’m sick, and not to come back.” She went still, and when the door opened, and Tony held his breath.

“My wife is ill,” Hank said immediately, “and I would appreciate if you ceased the noise.” His accent was absolutely horrible, but the attendant seemed too polite to notice.

“Oh,” the man sounded apologetic, “if you wife is ill, there is a doctor on board—”

“That’s all right,” Hank interrupted hastily. “We saw a doctor before we left. All she needs is some uninterrupted rest.” He put emphasis on _uninterrupted_ , and the attendant seemed sufficiently cowed.

“Of course, Sir. I’ll inform the staff of the change.”

“And cancel our standing meal order,” he added as an afterthought. “I’ll come collect it myself.” There was another mumbled _yes, sir_ , and then the door clicked shut. Tony shoved the blankets off in a huff, and Hank walked over to let Steve out.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Tony said.

“Well, he was looking at Jan’s pile like it had personally offended him,” Hank said.

“Course it worked,” Jan said. She crawled over the pile to get off the bed. “Don’t underestimate the power of a damsel in distress as a distraction technique. I use it on Hank all the time.”

“Hey,” Hank protested. Jan just waved a hand at him.

“Speaking of dinner, why don’t we eat?” Jan said. “Go get us something, honey? I can’t go, I’m sick.” Hank sighed dramatically, because he had literally _just_ sat down again to read, and stood reluctantly.

“All right, stay out of way of the door, just in case.” Hank pulled open the door just wide enough to squeeze through and slipped into the corridor. Jan eyed Steve for a moment, closely enough that it was just on this side of uncomfortable, before she hopped over to one of the chests lying at the foot of the bed.

“You know what, wait just a moment.” She lifted a pile of books from the top of the chest—how many books could one man _own_ —and dropped them aside. On top of them, she dropped two, nearly identical coats—one in dark red and the other blue. They looked extremely expensive.

“Hank never wears them anyway, and what you have is well…” She paused, searching for a descriptor. After failing to find a polite term, she just shrugged, and petted the sleeve of the blue coat. “I designed them myself,” she said proudly. She handed the blue coat to Steve, and the red to Tony.

“Might be a little snug at the shoulders for you, Steve, but it should fit Tony just fine,” she said, “and I’m sure it’s much warmer than what you have now.”

Steve knew better to turn down such a generous offer—now was not the time to turn away charity—so he pulled off his old jacket to try the new one on. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. It fit nearly perfectly, like she’s said, if a little tight at the shoulders. He could do much worse.

“You can take some of his boots too, if they fit,” she said. “He never wears anything I buy him. He’s got the sense of style of a ninety-year-old school teacher and still he won’t let me help him. He’s a tragedy.” She smiled fondly even as she threw her arms up in the air, and then plucked a piece of fuzz from Tony’s jacket shoulder. He looked striking in his jacket, and Steve could begin to see the sort of man he’d been meant to be—all fashion and booze and high society—even beneath the unshaven face.

Tony caught him staring and waggled his eyebrows, and Steve looked quickly away before he outed them both. Jan didn’t seem to have noticed, and Steve set to work pulling the bread and compass and papers out of their old jackets. The new ones had inside pockets, so Steve handed Tony his things and tucked the remaining items inside.

Steve was reluctant to discard the old jacket though, and Tony seemed to have the same reluctance. Eventually, they settled for discarding the stolen jackets—they didn’t really fit them, anyway—but keeping their old ones on underneath as a lining.

Just then, the door to the car opened again, and Hank stepped in balancing a tray precariously on one hand.

“They were out of—is that my coat?” Hank asked. He glanced between the two of them, paused, and then set the tray down. “You know what? I’ve got too many coats anyway. Take it.” Tony was eyeing the tray from the instant he walked into the car, and the moment Hank presented it he lifted it from his hands, discarding the lid.

“I haven’t had a real meal in forever,” he said. He picked the largest plate for himself, setting the tray aside. “ _Meat._ ” He honestly sounded like he was going to cry, and when Hank laughed and asked if they should leave him and the steak alone, Jan elbowed him so hard he was pushed into the desk. Tony ducked his head, a little embarassed, but Jan smiled kindly, eyes a little sad, and assured them that they could have their fills.

Steve grabbed the next largest plate, because he was starving. He stuck a potato onto one of the forks and handed it to Tony, remembering something about potatoes having most of the necessaries for survival. Tony took it gratefully.

They spent the first few minutes of dinner in silence, but eventually Jan struck up a discussion with Steve about his limited experiences abroad, and then once Steve accidentally let slip that he was a solider, the topic switched to that, and Tony and Hank quickly broke off into politics. Eventually, Steve and Jan had to break them up before their shouting match alerted the neighbors, and they decided it was time for bed.

Steve had already curled under the blanket of one of the beds when he felt something drop on top of him. He opened one eye to see Jan stacking books and jackets on top of their blanket. When he raised an inquisitive eyebrow, she shrugged.

“It worked before,” she said. “In case anyone barges in. Just keep your heads under the blanket.”

“Jan, that looks stupid,” Hank commented. Jan rolled her eyes.

“What he means is, try not to wrinkle his books. You don’t move around much while you sleep?”

“No,” Steve said. He turned over carefully so that he was facing Tony. After they’d gotten comfortable, Jan stacked a few more books, and then pulled the blanket up over their heads. The lamp clicked off, and a moment later Steve could hear Jan crawling into her own bed.

Steve was just about to slip into sleep, when he felt Tony lean forward, just the lightest brush of lips against his own. It was so fleeting that he could have imagined it, but it made him smile nonetheless.

 

 

Steve slept well into the next morning—even Tony crawled out of bed earlier than him to poke through more of Hanks books—but when Hank brought in breakfast, he finally kicked off the tangle of blankets to go eat. The bathroom in the car was ridiculously small, and it was frigid—Steve suspected it drained directly outside, hence the cold—so whatever lingering drowsiness was instantly sapped away. He washed his face and cleaned the cut on his hand. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to use the razor sitting out on the sink as well.

When he finally stumbled out of the bathroom, he stopped short. Tony was almost clean shaven; he’d kept a neatly trimmed beard and mustache that looked ridiculously good on him. Tony scratched at the facial hair under his scrutiny, and though Steve could see in his eyes that he was considering it, he didn’t tease him.

Which was good. No teasing before noon.

Tony was seated on the floor across from Jan with a plate full of sausage and eggs, and Steve sat down next to him, close enough that their arms brushed together. Tony leaned into him and wordlessly passed him a plate, absorbed in a conversation with Jan.

“Oh, it’s a beautiful city. Have you ever seen Paris, Tony?” Jan asked. Tony shook his head, and she turned to him, “Steve?”

“Once,” he said. Beautiful wasn’t how he would have described it then, with gunfire in the air and bodies and rubble in the streets, “but that was years ago. I imagine it’s a lot different now.”

Tony glanced at him understandingly, having pieced together when exactly his last opportunity to visit the city would have been. Steve just gave a half-shrug and at his plate. Jan beamed at him, unaware of the exchange.

“It is! When we arrive we’ll give you the tour, Hank and I,” she promised. Ignoring Hank’s indignant huff, she added, “You’ll come, won’t you?”

As soon as they arrived in Paris, Steve would be expected to report in with SHIELD. He had orders to follow. Tony watched him out of the corner of his eye, and Steve could tell that he wanted him to agree.

“Of course,” he said. Just this once, his orders could wait.

After breakfast, Jan invited Steve to a game of bridge, because Tony and Hank were busy discussing something that didn’t interest either of them at all. Despite the rocky start, they seemed to be getting along well, even if they felt the need to have an intellectual pissing contest in every third discussion.

Steve and Jan were just into their second game, and Jan was winning again—Steve was horrible at this game, it seemed—when there was a banging knock at the door. The entire room started when the luggage car side door flew open without any further prelude.

“Excuse me, Sir, we’ll be reaching a checkpoint soo—” The man at the door stalled when he saw them. Realization struck him a moment later, and he started to pull the door closed behind him. Steve vaulted over the bridge board, knocking it over in the process, before the door could even completely close, forcing first a boot and then his entire body into the gap.

The door slammed open again and the man had just enough time to bring his arms up for a block when Steve struck him. The first blow landed on his forearm, but the second caught him under the chin. Steve grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him against the door frame. He crumpled to the ground.

“Steve!” Tony shouted. He jumped off the bed, because _holy shit what_ and Steve had a second to look apologetic before he grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him inside.

“Wow,” Jan said. She sounded equal parts stunned and impressed.

“Sorry.” Steve shut the door behind him.

“He said checkpoint,” Tony said. He was already slipping his boots on. “They’ll search the cars.”

“They’d come looking for him, anyway.” Jan pointed to the unconscious man. Steve nodded, grabbed his coat off the bed as she continued, “You should go.”

“They’ll know you were helping us,” Tony said. “Especially when he wakes up.” Jan glanced between them, and then a tiny smile crossed her face. She touched a hand to her forehead, and with a delicate sigh, crumpled next to the bed. Jan cracked one eye at Steve, nodding toward Hank. Her husband gave her a blank look, uncomprehending, before he realized what her plan was.

“Oh,” Hank said, “Oh _no, no no no_.” He stepped back, but Jan’s hand came out to grab his ankle.

“It has to look real, Hank,” she chided, “Unless you want them to hit me?”

“No!” he shouted, at the same time she said, “Good, now don’t be such a baby.”

“Sorry,” Steve said. He tried to pull the punch as much as he could while still allowing it to bruise. He caught Hank before it knocked him completely back, and helped him onto the floor. Tony grabbed Jan’s hand and kissed it—Steve ignored the little spike of jealousy at that, although Hank let out another outraged groan.

“We’re gonna need a rain check on that tour,” Tony said. He tried to sound lighthearted, as though they would see each other soon. Jan smiled sadly, and he gave her hand a light squeeze. “Thank you. For everything.”

She patted his cheek. “No problem, Sweetie. They’ll probably reimburse us for bad service anyway,” she said. “Now go. I’ll give you a minute to get off the train before I call the guards. Be safe.” Steve grabbed Tony’s arm and pulled him along.

Thankfully the luggage car was empty and so was the hallway connecting it to the next. They pushed through, following the path they’d taken when they boarded the train. The iron door was still unlocked, thank god, although he had to put his whole bodyweight into the lever to unlatch it.

From the direction of Jan’s car, a sharp, womanly shriek burst out, clear as day. Steve wrenched open the door, looking out in both direction. Tony pushed past him to lean out.

“Tuck and roll.” Tony said it with the same casualness he might have used to suggest the color of the curtains, and jumped. Steve edged out and pulled the door shut behind him, gripping the handle tightly—maybe they would think they were still on the train, waste their time searching—and jumped after him.

There wasn’t as much snow as Steve would have liked on the landing, and all the wind was knocked out of him in a rush. Tony must have had better luck, because he was stomping over to meet him by the time Steve had recovered enough to sit up.

He bent to offer Steve a hand, and nearly got pulled over for his efforts. They took a moment to brush off the snow and ice from their new coats and hair before turning around to inspect where they’d landed. The train disappeared into the distance, stirring up plumes of loose snow in its wake, taking their best chance at crossing the border safely with it. After a long minute, Tony turned to Steve.

“So,” he said, “now what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Steve and Tony encounter a truck carting the dead from the camps. If you're not a fan of gore you may want to skip that part.


	4. Chapter 4

They’d walked along the tracks for as long as they dared before breaking off into the trees. It was difficult through the fresh snow, and night crept up on them before either realized just how late it had gotten. Steve cursed himself for not stopping sooner, but thankfully the coats were warm and they did their job remarkably well. They picked a somewhat enclosed place to settle in for the night and huddled together beneath an old pine tree. The trees grew together a little thicker here, with long, low hanging branches crisscrossing the clearing. While it wasn’t ideal, it helped to break the wind and kept most of the snow off them.

Tony had sat down next to him, tangling their legs together, and leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder. He was asleep almost instantly, without any fuss. Steve smiled fondly. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to complain was telling enough; Tony was clearly exhausted. He shifted so that Tony’s head rested on his chest instead, mindful of how sore they’d both be in the morning if they slept in an awkward position.

Steve could almost say he was _warm_ that night, but only in comparison to that first night spent waiting at the extraction point. It was nothing compared to the train cars; still, it was enough.

 

Steve woke right as the sun began to rise. Sometime during the night they’d both slid further down against the tree trunk. They were both covered in a fine dusting of snow, and Steve could see the outlines of how Tony had shifted during the night. His head was resting on Steve’s stomach, face buried in his arms to keep warm and head haloed in white flakes.

Steve brushed the frost from Tony’s hair, and Tony sniffed, burying his face deeper into the crook of his elbow but not waking. He hated to wake him, but they needed to move, so he shook Tony’s shoulder gently. Tony whined low in his throat, but Steve eventually convinced him to let him get up. Steve went about covering their tracks, trying to make it less obvious that they’d stayed the night here. Tony joined him a minute later, fully awake and surely just as exhausted and hungry as Steve felt. They pulled the bread from their pockets, made stale from the cold and no less appetizing, half frozen as it was. They ate in silence and tried their best not to eat too much. They didn’t know how long it needed to last.

There was nothing else they could do. They walked.

They’d been walking for a good half a day, steadfastly refusing to stop. The sound of boots crunching in the snow behind him tapered off completely before Steve realized that Tony had slowed and was no longer walking with him.

“What’s that?” Tony asked. Steve glanced over, but Tony wasn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed further up the path. Steve followed his gaze as Tony pushed past him to trudge through the snow, and he followed him through the trees. The snow was drifting a little higher here, and once they were closer he could see that it was the edge of a road, two long trails leading off into the distance. Tony had a good eye, catching sight of the tire tracks in the snow from just a glance.

Steve caught Tony’s arm before he could go over the drift and into the fresh fallen snow on the road. The last thing they needed was to leave their own tracks where they could be easily spotted and followed.

“We should stay off the road,” Steve said. Tony glanced back at him, questioning. “I don’t know if they were looking for us specifically at that checkpoint, or if they were just doing a routine check, but…”

“But if they weren’t looking before, they are now,” Tony supplied. “You’re right. Avoid the roads.” Steve nodded, waiting until Tony had stepped back from the road so that he could disguise the more obvious boot prints.

“Keep an eye out, though. We can’t risk a town, but there might still be somewhere we can stop for supplies.” Tony was staring off down the road, lost in thought. “Tony?”

Tony jumped, righting himself. “Right,” he said, “So which way, O Captain, My Captain?” Tony pointed off into the trees, and then back in the direction the road followed and, now that Steve looked a little more closely, the faintest evidence of smoke above the tree line. “Follow the road, or into the trees?”

The smoke could be a town, or it could be someone’s home. Either way, they wanted to avoid people altogether, and taking the road was clearly the more dangerous of the two options. For now, with these tracks being so fresh, they were better off playing it safe. Steve nodded toward the trees and started walking.

“The trees are safer. Is there a river nearby?”

Tony gave him an incredulous look. “How the fuck am I supposed to know?” he asked, “You had a map. You tell me.”

“I was just thinking out loud. I mean, you're from here, I thought you might know.” Steve shrugged, sounding faintly amused. Tony scowled, but there was no real heat to it.

“Okay, first off,” Tony stumbled along beside him, obviously having a harder time of navigating the drifts, “I’m Czechoslovakian, not Russian,” Tony said. He stumbled again, and then in a stroke a genius, fell in behind Steve to use his footprints to clear a path.

“And second, just because I’m Czechoslovakian—half-Czechoslovakian, actually, I wasn’t even born there—and just because I have lived here, for a little while does not mean I know where all the rivers are, in the _middle-of-fucking-nowhere_.”

Steve paused for effect, a smile quirking his lips. “So you _don’t_ know, or—?”

He cut off when the snowball collided with the back of his head. Steve gaped, shooting him an astonished look. Tony looked very much as though he was planning to stick his tongue out at him, but instead settled on impatiently shooing him forward.

Steve smirked, marching forward with the wind’s tuneless whistle, and all that he could see as the ground disappeared into the trees was white, white, white.

 

 

“Do we need to stop?” Steve asked after some time. Tony gave him a withering look, which he must not have seen, because it was positively heartbreaking, morale-crushing even, and Steve didn’t as much as blink. It was for the best anyway, he probably would have cried.

“We just started,” Tony said. He ignored how choppy the response was, coming out between heavy breaths. They really couldn’t afford to slow down any more than they already were. When Steve still didn’t respond, Tony pressed on past his stupid, earnest, expectant face to take the lead. “It’s okay if you’re tired, old man. You can walk in my footsteps for a while.”

Steve rolled his eyes, gesturing with a flourish for Tony to walk ahead. His face was bright red, probably from a combination of windburn and frostbite. Still, the weather had held out surprisingly well for the day, without any fresh snowfall and with almost bearable temperatures. It was more than they could say on most days, and was almost enough to put Tony in higher spirits, even if his stomach was a gnawing distraction at the back of his mind.

He’ gotten plenty used to going hungry over past year, though, and they still had a long way to go, so he’d be damned if he was the one making them stop early. They could stop over when the weather turned, as it most likely would, or when the sun got a little lower and Steve decided it was too dark to press on.

There was no question about it: they may have been forced to make do without a campfire when they were closer to Izhma, but if it got any colder tonight, they would _have_ to make a fire or risk freezing to death. And if that increased their chances of being found, well… they’d just have to find a good place to make camp, and keep good watch. To be honest, there was a much bigger chance of them being caught here than wherever they ended up by nightfall.

It was a pretty fair bet that only someone they _really_ didn’t want to run into would be able to afford or rationalize owning a jeep, and they really weren’t that far from the road. One wayward soul with a rifle was all it would take to cut their journey short.

Tony stumbled slightly, and huffed in irritation. He steadfastly ignored the silent concern practically _pouring_ off the captain behind him, and started picking out the path of least resistance, because for every place that the snow had piled into drifts, there were places of shallow snow where the drifts had blown away.

Tony started that way, Steve following just behind him, until it wasn’t quite so difficult to make a path. They walked like that for a while, with the only sound between then the crunch of snow and the occasional noise that had all of Tony’s nerves on edge, looking for soldiers. After about the third false-alarm, he was starting to think that if the cold didn’t kill him, the stress would, and if he didn’t start a conversation to get his mind off it, he was going to go nuts. Tony never did like silent travel, anyway.

“Hey, Cap?” Tony waited until Steve gave a quiet answer—not even a real word, _thank you very much, who needed a rest now?_ —before continuing. “Just so you know, next chance we get, I want a hot meal.”

“That right?”

“Yup. Sorry, buddy, but stale bread’s not going to cut it. I’ve been living high-class this past year, and I expect my water-and-oats lukewarm at least.” Steve chuckled, low and sincere, and Tony pointedly ignored the little thrill that ran through him at earning that, even though he knew it was a lame joke, and Steve was only humoring him.

“All right,” Steve agreed, “how about we—”

A loud crack, and whatever Steve had been about to say disappeared into a strangled curse. That was all the warning Tony got before the ground dipped beneath him at a sharp angle. Tony stumbled forward, water seeping little daggers of cold into his boots. He dug his fingers into the snow and scrambled forward, further onto solid ground.

“Steve?” He whirled around, quick as he could without slipping. Steve was gone. His eyes flew to the fresh hole in the ground— and it wasn’t ground, it was ice, they’d been trudging over a fucking frozen river, “Shit! Steve?” When he tried to move closer, the cracked ice spindled outward, water rushing into the divot and pushing the ice down beneath the surface. A burst of bubbles broke the surface of the hole, but nothing—no one—followed it.

“ _Steve!_ ” Tony shouted. It echoed in the silence, and he gripped the ice hard as he leaned closer to the edge. He couldn’t see him, couldn’t see anything through the layer of slush floating just on the surface of the water. Anything below it was obscured from his vision, and somewhere down there, somewhere right beneath his feet Steve was drowning, Steve was freezing, _Jesus, fuck, how was he supposed to—_

More ice cracked, spiking out to from the hole. He needed to do something, go in after him or, something, anything was better than sitting timidly on the solid ice. Another burst of bubbles, and Tony stopped caring if the ice wasn’t safe, easing down onto his knees and then his stomach. This was physics, basic stuff, distribution of weight and pressure and—

Finally Steve broke the surface, gasping and clawing for purchase, and Tony could have cried in relief. He grabbed Steve’s hand in both of his, and _pulled_. The ice groaned beneath them, and he kicked back carefully away from the hole. It held, for a moment, and then a large crack ran up between them, and they both sunk further into the water, the remaining ice barely holding their combined weight. Tony leaned back, water seeping into the divot beneath them. Tony’s breath left him in an involuntary gasp when the water seeped through his jacket, hitting his chest, and _fuck_ if the ice wasn’t going to hold them both.

“— _mother fucker_ —” Tony swore again, ignoring the way the ice water soaked his sleeve, his torso, prickling up his arms and across his chest like hypodermics against his skin, and it was _so fucking cold_ —

Somehow, Tony managed to pull them both back out of the water again, and it was much too slow going, pausing every time the ice buckled further beneath them. He hooked his arms under Steve’s and dragged them over, away from the water onto (hopefully) solid ground. For a moment they both just lay there breathless, shuddering against the cold. Then, Tony rolled himself up, grabbing onto the sleeve of Steve’s jacket to pull him a bit further from the edge. The freezing fabric crackled under his grip, and stuck to the fabric of his gloves like burrs.

When Steve leaned on him this time, it was wet, completely devoid of the warmth and still the greatest thing he’d ever felt. Tony leaned back into him, wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in Steve’s neck. It was like touching ice, he was so cold, and Tony could almost feel the warmth leeching out of him as he held him. Steve shuddered beside him, a full bodied thing, and Tony couldn’t really bring himself to care, because he was shaking too and he hadn’t even fallen completely in.

“Tone…” Steve gasped.

“We’re fine, Steve, we’re fine. Just…just don’t move for a minute.” His chest was heaving, heart still racing from exertion and adrenaline. Tony’s legs and sleeves were both drenched, and his boots sloshed as though filled with water. His hands went to the laces, intending to pull them off and let the water drain out. Steve’s hand was immediately on his wrist, stopping him.

“D-don’t t-take your boots off. You’ll n-never get them back on,” Steve said. Tony nodded, taking his hands off his boots. He pulled both sopping gloves off with his teeth, rubbing them together instead before pressing them to Steve’s face, his neck, willing him to warm up. They were numb enough that he couldn’t even register the touch, and he really couldn’t tell if he was doing any good.

“I’m, g-getting you wet,” Steve protested. He made a weak attempt at pushing Tony off, which he could only hope was from lack of resolve and not the beginning stages of hypothermia.

“I was wet already Steve,” Tony said, “and besides, you’re the one who looks like a drowned rat.” He made a point to look Steve over and then amended: “frozen rat.” It got him a smile, at least. Weak, but he’d take it. “Take off your jacket,” he ordered. Steve’s was soaked through, and the heavy coat wasn’t doing him any favors now. Tony hadn’t even worked the first button loose on his own coat when Steve stopped him. Tony glanced up, hands stilling. Steve frowned mulishly.

“’m not t-taking your jacket,” Steve said. Tony shook him off, undoing the last of the buttons quickly before Steve could protest. He caught Steve’s hands and moved them carefully aside as he started unbuttoning Steve’s coat. His fingers were clumsy from the cold, but he managed to get the row undone.

“Just the top one, Steve. Come on, I’ve had just the one for a year now. It’s fine.” He held out the outer jacket, ignoring the biting cold, and fixed Steve with an expectant look. Steve hesitated still, and for a moment Tony thought he was going to continue arguing. “It’s kind of wet, anyway. But it’s better than yours.”

Steve shot him an impatient look. It would have been comical, really, if the water in Steve’s hair hadn’t already begun to freeze solid the moment he’d pulled himself out of the water. Before he could think better of it, Tony reached out to scrape some of the ice pieces from his bangs, flicking them into the snow. The motion seemed to start something in him, because finally, grudgingly, Steve removed both his jackets. “Your shirt, too.” Tony handed over the mostly dry jacket, offering to hold the soaking clothes while Steve inelegantly tugged it on. Tony tried not to focus on the way his hands shook with every movement.

His lips were still a distracting shade of blue—then again, maybe Tony’s were too—but there was nothing to be done for it except…

“We need to find a town. Somewhere warm, and dry, or—where the hell are we?” Steve’s expression was pinched, like he was trying to map the area from memory. The cold was already making it hard for him to focus.

“I don’t...” Steve shuddered again, looking entirely irritated by his body’s reaction to the cold. When Tony put a hand against Steve’s cheek, it was like ice, and Steve leaned almost involuntarily into the warm touch. Tony moved to grab his shoulders, helping him up.

“We need to go. Now. We have to go back,” Tony said. Steve glanced at him sharply, as though about to protest, but Tony cut him off. “We’re both gonna freeze solid if we don’t get new clothes.”

He paused, and Tony could tell from his expression that he knew it was true. Steve nodded numbly, and Tony gripped him by the arm, trying to pull him forward. Steve was reluctant to move, the cold made every joint in Tony’s body ache. His limbs suddenly felt so heavy he was sure he wouldn’t be able to lift them, but he managed to get his feet under him and start walking.

It was painfully slow going. From what he could remember of the maps, he was sure that they would freeze before they made it. Tony kept tugging him forward, though, and after a while he stumbled and tugged back on Tony’s sleeve.

“Town’s…uh, that way…” Steve said. Tony's gaze followed the direction he’d indicated, opposite of where they were going, before pointing forward on their path.

“We’re going to the smoke. Do you see it? It isn’t far. C’mon,” he assured. Steve could only nod, though he was shivering so bad the movement may have gone unnoticed. He kept his eyes on the grey wisps in the sky, focusing resolutely on putting one foot in front of the other. Steve only seemed to shake harder, the further they got.

After a while, he stopped shivering altogether, and Tony forced himself to walk a little faster, pulling Steve along beside him.

Finally, they broke into a clearing, to see a small house standing alone in the snow. It looked decrepit, too old even to be standing, and it wasn’t so much as painted, but the chimney was belching smoke and the idea of warming by the fire that made it seemed almost too good to be true.

“C’mon, Steve, c’mon…” Tony muttered. He dragged him forward, all too aware of how much of Steve’s weight he was supporting now. Whoever lived here, they were home now, and Tony didn’t even consider what they would do if they weren’t welcome.

“Who’s there?” Tony jumped, turning toward the voice. He saw the woman standing in the doorway, shotgun clutched tightly in front of her, and Tony made an effort to angle Steve away from her, despite his resistance. Even if she wasn’t an expert shot, it wouldn’t make much of a difference at this range. She stared at them for a moment, seeming to straighten after some realization. “You’re the boys they’re looking for?”

Tony felt his heart drop, staying stubbornly silent. He certainly wasn’t going to confirm anything for her, and judging by Steve’s matching silence, he was in agreement. She didn’t seem to need confirmation, in any case, flicking her gaze between them and back in the direction they’d come, until a tiny voice behind her broke her focus. A head peeked cautiously from behind the woman’s legs, fingers curled in the cloth of her shirt and cheek pressed against her thigh.

“Who is it, Mama?” The woman ignored her, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Please,” Tony begged. He could hear the waver in his own voice, and he didn’t care. He just needed to get Steve inside, get them both warm. There was no pride to be had lying dead in the snow. She took in their wet clothes silently, studying their faces. Then, abruptly, she dropped the gun to her side, leaning on it like a walking stick, and stepped back from the doorway.

“Bring him inside, quickly,” she said. The woman guided the child back inside by the hand, leaving the door open in invitation. Tony followed immediately.

“S’this a good idea?” Steve mumbled. Tony shrugged and helped Steve up the crumbling step leading to the house.

“I think… if she’d wanted to shoot us, she would have,” Tony said.

The cabin was surprisingly large, with multiple rooms—nothing like the large complexes at the camp, but more than he could have expected in such a tiny looking building. The front door opened into a living area, with a sparse but normal living room. It was amazingly warm, despite the door having been left wide open, and the smell of their dinner made his stomach twist painfully. He quickly kicked the door shut behind him to keep the heat.

“The stove’s this way.” Tony jumped, he hadn’t even noticed the little girl peering at them warily from across the room. She was pointing through a doorway, to a spot just out of view. “Mama said stay put. You can sit by the fire if yer cold.” It took Tony a moment to realize that she was staring at them expectantly because she was waiting for them to follow, and so he nodded and pulled him along.

He certainly didn’t need to be told twice, even with his pants and boots soaked through and frozen, the chill as already beginning to leave him, his skin already beginning to burn from the temperature change, and the idea of standing by the stove was all too appealing. His coordination was still off from being exposed to freezing waters, everything just shy of total numbness, and Tony set Steve down gently as he could manage next to the fire before laying Steve’s soaked clothes on the floor. He stripped off his own coat, too, and his boots as well. He was helping Steve pull off his own boots when the woman returned, draping a blanket over each of their shoulders without comment.

Steve glanced up at her thankfully, but she merely stepped around them and disappeared into the next room again. He was shuddering, trying to rapidly warm, and Steve pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

They were lucky. He’d thought there was a river in the area. He should have known to be careful. Hell, they’d been walking over the damn thing and he didn’t even _notice_ until he fell through the ice. It could have been Tony who fell through, or they both could have gone under. It could have been so much worse. Tony placed a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him from his thoughts. It was as though he could tell what Steve was thinking—he probably could, the man was a genius, after all—but he didn’t say anything, just rubbed his thumb over the short hairs on the nape of his neck and settled a little closer.

The contents of the cast iron pot on the stove were boiling openly, but Steve had barely a moment to realize how hungry he was before a tiny hand was covering the pot with a lid and sliding it back from the flame.

“I’m Katya,” the girl said to Tony. Steve glanced over, and nearly lost it laughing at the alien expression on Tony’s face. It was almost like he’d never spoken to a child before. She didn’t seem at all discouraged by their lack of response, chattering right on with her questions. “Are you soldiers? Will you be staying for supper or—”

“Katya, shush,” her mother said. She re-entered the kitchen with an armload of clothing. “This is why you are here, yes?” She gave their frozen clothes a long look that meant she had no doubts. She paused. “Did you decide to go for a swim?”

“We didn’t see the ice,” Steve said. She looked unimpressed, but handed Tony the stack of clothes without comment.

“Why?” Tony asked before he could think better of it. She frowned, confused, and Tony clarified: “If you know who we are, why help us?” She straightened herself and dusting her hands together despite there being nothing to brush off.

“Those clothes belonged to my husband,” she said. A sad smile ghosted her lips. “He is in one of the work camps now. So that you do not misunderstand: I am glad you managed to escape. It gives me hope that one day my husband will return to me.”

“Oh,” Tony said. He didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t seem interested in their sympathy. “Well, thank you.” He handed a set of clothes to Steve, and even at first glance he could tell that they were much better quality than anything they’d had thus far, barring Jan’s coats.

“You can change in the bedroom.” She pointed to the only room they hadn’t yet been through. “Leave your clothes by the stove to dry. We can offer you a bed, clothes, food,” she said. “My son works nights in town. His bed will be empty until morning.” She made a little shooing motion, and then turned to the stove. Steve lingered a moment more before climbing somewhat unsteadily to his feet and finally following Tony out of the kitchen.

The house was small enough that they had no question where they should be going. Tony pulled open the door to the bedroom, revealing two more beds—one large enough for an adult, and one that was obviously intended for a child. It looked a little small for the girl they’d spoken to in the kitchen, but the bed was good quality, as though it had been bought in better times.

He shut the door quietly behind them, setting his clothes on one of the beds. Steve threw his set next to Tony’s, suppressing a wince at the movement. Every inch of his skin since he’d entered the house was tingling as it warmed, and the longer he stayed the closer the sensation grew to burning.

He knew it was a good sign and that he should be happy that he was feeling anything at all, but it was hard to be thankful when his fingers and toes felt like there were a hundred needles underneath his skin. Steve unbuttoned the jacket carefully, easing it over his shoulders and letting it hang on one arm. He took a second to scrub the water and melting ice from his hair before discarding the jacket on the floor.

Steve’s skin was an angry, mottled red underneath the jacket. Tony was reaching out to touch before he could think better of it, trailing his fingers over the reddened skin, still slightly cold to the touch, and followed the mottled pattern all the way to the shoulder. Steve sighed a little, and when Tony met Steve’s eyes he was smiling at him, eyebrows raised.

Tony dropped his hand to Steve’s, lifting it to his eye-line. “Frostbite?” His fingers didn’t look any different from Tony’s, just slightly red from the cold. He breathed on them anyway, enclosing them in his own.

“I don’t think so,” Steve said. He reluctantly withdrew his hand from Tony’s grip. Tony’s other hand was trailing from Steve’s shoulder to waist unconsciously, an echo of a touch as he watched Steve’s expression. It felt nice, almost too nice to stop him, but eventually he did have to step back. It didn’t take very long to get dressed, and their host would get curious if they lingered. He worked at the button on his pants instead, the ice melting and uncomfortable against his skin.

“I just need a minute to warm up. Hand me that?” Steve gestured to one of the set of clothes. Tony handed him a shirt, not bothering to hide the appreciative look. Steve huffed, and Tony’s expression turned into a full-blown leer. It looked a bit forced to him, and Steve could still see the underlying concern in the expression. He appreciated the attempt at normalcy, anyway, so Steve rolled his eyes and snatched the pair of pants as well, half-turning his back to Tony and smiling. “Just get dressed.”

 

There were three bowls set out and waiting in the kitchen. Steve took a moment to hang the rest of their clothes by the stove as instructed, and that the only reason he didn’t notice sooner that both Katya and her mother were already eating. Tony noticed the extra place setting at the same time Steve did, and was just turning to ask who it was for when the front door was kicked open.

Steve tensed, shifting between the door and the rest of the kitchen without second thought. It came back to him a moment later, only after Tony’s insistent “ _who’s that_ ” to their host, and Steve forced himself to relax, if only marginally.

“Your son?” he asked. The answer wasn’t really necessary; Katya was already running into the other room, shouting excitedly. The boot falls paused as he stopped pick her up, and when he entered into the kitchen a moment later still brushing snowflakes from a fur-lined coat, he stopped completely, eyes flicking between them, questioning. He was only a few years younger than Steve, but much smaller in stature and the sharp glare he leveled them with left no question of what he thought of them.

“Who are you?”

“Guests,” his mother said. She didn’t give either of them a chance to respond. “Did you get the wood?” The boy nodded, still eyeing Steve and Tony. Eventually, Katya started to squirm in his grasp, and he set her down, stalking over to the table to grab a bowl and spoon.

Steve didn’t miss the wide berth he gave them both, nor did he miss the not-so-subtle glance he sent his mother before retreating into the other room. She turned to her daughter.

“Time for bed,” she said. The girl’s mother gave a sharp tut at the beginning of a whine. “Not tonight. Bed. ” The little girl stamped her feet, shooting a searching look at both Steve and Tony as though they would come to her defense, before finally shuffling out of the room. Her mother followed a moment after, and Steve watched them go, eyes fixed on the doorway.

Something nudged the back of his wrist, and Steve turned his hand to grab it. Tony was holding out a bowl of stew. Steve took it without comment, and Tony leaned against the table, spooning the stew into his mouth hungrily. His eyes fluttered after the first bite, and half the bowl had disappeared before Steve could even bring his own to his lips.

It was, without doubt, the most delicious stew he had ever tasted.

“We’re letting fugitives into our home now?” The words were hushed, but Steve had been listening for them, and he resisted the urge to turn to the doorway to listen, taking the more subtle excuse to cross the room to the stove for seconds. “Feeding them?” Steve was fairly certain that he hadn’t meant to be overheard, but Steve turned his head, eyeing them through the doorway in time to see his mother waved her spoon at him, threatening and low.

“ _Hold your tongue_ ,” she hissed. She glanced guiltily toward the kitchen. Steve looked pointedly away, not wanting to appear that he was eves dropping. “Your father raised you better.” There was a note of sadness in her voice that made Steve immediately guilty.

There were a few more hushed words exchanged, their accents too true in their anger for Steve to make out more than a few words, and then a quiet “I’m going” and “be safe” before the front door slammed. Steve shivered at the draft from the open door, and tried to look like he hadn’t been listening when their host walked back into the kitchen.

“When you’re done eating, wash your bowls,” she said. “I’m not your maid.”

Tony snorted, even as Steve gave a polite “yes, ma’am.”

She grabbed a chord hanging from the ceiling, off in the corner of the kitchen and small enough that it had escaped his notice before, and pulled. Steve was expecting stairs, but instead when the door hinged open a step ladder unfurled, swinging a good two feet from the floor. It looked hand-made and not very stable, like maybe there _had_ been a set of stairs behind the door at some point in the past, but not anymore.

“You’ll have to share. We don’t have enough beds for the both of you,” she apologized. “It’s small, but it’ll warm up quickly. We leave the door closed during the day to keep the heat in,” she paused, staring up at her son’s bedroom. She turned back to them, and for a moment looked as though she was about to say something else, then abruptly changed her mind, “I’ll get you some blankets.” And then she was gone again.

Tony stood up and walked over to peer up the hole. It was dark, but not horribly so with the light from the kitchen. The ceiling looked a little short, and they’d probably have to hunch over to walk around inside. Tony glanced back at Steve, shrugged, and started up the ladder.

Their host returned just after Tony disappeared, an armful of blankets in tow. She handed them to Steve with a slight smile. “Please excuse my son,” she said. “He does not understand, and he puts the blame on the wrong people.” Steve felt the back of his neck heat at the realization that he’d been caught eavesdropping.

“Life hasn’t exactly been fair to him,” Steve said. “I understand. And thank you.” He hefted the blankets, and then draped them over one shoulder, turning to climb the ladder. The attic was cramped, with only a bed, a small end table, and an unlit candle for furnishing. Tony was looking interestedly through a stack of books against the wall, noting titles and page markings but seeming disappointed in whatever he found. Steve didn’t particularly care. The only thing _Steve_ was interested in was the bed.

It wasn’t until Steve’s back hit the mattress that he realized how unbelievably, bone-tired he was. How good it was to be warm, comfortable, and full, and to not have to worry if they’d be spotted, or freeze to death, or any of the other hundred ways that things could go wrong.

That could _still_ go wrong, if he allowed himself to think about it, but he wasn’t going to go down that road yet. The bed dipped beside him when Tony kneeled on the edge, one foot still firmly planted on the floor. He nudged Steve’s shoulder, not at all gently, because the bed was way too small for two fully grown men—too small for just Steve, to be honest. And now that he considered it, that was probably why they’d been given so many blankets. Someone would probably have to sleep on the floor.

“Scoot over,” Tony insisted. Steve cracked an eye, making it abundantly clear what he thought of that suggestion, and settled further into the bed. Tony’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, and he got off the cot completely, snatching the spare blanket instead. No sooner had Steve closed his eye, a smug expression settling on his face, than a solid weight dropped on top of his chest. Steve groaned.

“Ugh, Tony, you’re heavy,” he said. _A_ _nd warm and soft and_ —his brain supplied, and he quickly cut off that train of thought. “I can’t breathe,” Steve said instead, because that was safer. He made no move to push Tony off, though.

Tony hummed thoughtfully. “Then you’d better stop talking,” he suggested, “conserve oxygen.” He smirked, nestling his head into crook of Steve’s neck, so that Steve could feel the smile without seeing it, and so that with every little movement his beard scratched against bare skin. Steve shuddered, and Tony, misinterpreting this as a sign of cold, pulled the blanket he’d grabbed over them both. Steve laced his fingers together behind Tony’s back, thinking, despite everything, that he could get used to this.

But then Tony started trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down his collar, and…well, that brought on different thoughts entirely.

“Quit,” Steve said. He put up a hand to stop him. Tony just smirked, kissing his hand and then his fingers, sucking one of the digit into his mouth. Steve choked off a groan before it could get too loud, but not before Tony noticed, and smirking, started to work his tongue over the pad, sucking hard. “You—” Steve cleared his throat, pulled his hand pointedly back, but he couldn’t, damn him, keep the waver out of his voice, “are going to get us kicked out.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that fifty-year-old woman and her seven-year-old daughter are going to climb up the _rope ladder_ and catch us in the act,” he whispered. He leaned up to catch Steve’s eye, and then his mouth, the barest brush of chapped lips, and watched Steve’s eyelids drop half-lidded and shining with desire and affection.

When Steve traced his tongue over Tony’s bottom lip, he happily obliged in deepening the kiss, trailing his hands over Steve’s shoulders, up his neck, into the soft, short hairs at the top. One of Steve’s hands came up to thread through Tony’s hair and he hummed encouragement, eyes dropping shut. He could feel Steve growing hard beneath him, and the thought made his own cock jump. He leaned up a little, to try and give himself room to maneuver, and when Steve broke the kiss, he was torn between whining at the loss and encouraging the sacrifice for the greater good.

That good, of course, being getting Steve Rogers out of his pants.

“Tony,” he gasped. Steve cleared his throat again, tilting his head away when Tony leaned in, and said it again, more firmly this time—with all the composure he had left, really. “That woman has been way too good to us. She had no reason to,” When Tony seemed unperturbed and not at all convinced, added, “and we are not doing anything in her _teenage son’s bed_.” Tony hesitated, and that, at least, elicited a sigh. He dropped his head, forehead resting against Steve’s bicep for a long moment. Finally, he took a deep, steadying breath and groaned.

“Fine.” Tony rolled sideways, so that he was wedged on his side between Steve and the wall, effectively pinning his arm in the process. “Spoil sport.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” Steve started to get up, because he probably couldn’t trust himself at this point, especially not with Tony so eager next to him, and still feeling a little strung out on adrenaline from earlier. He grabbed a pillow and one of the blankets, carefully extricating his arm and then easing himself onto the floor. Tony’s head appeared over the edge a moment later, looking disappointed.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” he insisted. “Steve.” And yep, he was definitely pouting. It made his lips stand out even more, all red and shining, and Steve huffed a laugh at how quickly his brain translated that into sex.

“I _really_ do. Goodnight, Tony.” A long pause, and then.

“I won’t grope you anymore,” Tony offered. Steve gave him a skeptical look, in part because he wasn’t sure he believed Tony was telling the truth, but also because he didn’t think he had the willpower to resist if he wasn’t. “Promise,” Tony added. Steve gave him a stern look. Tony just smiled back cheekily until he gave in.

Tony scooted toward the wall, looking inordinately pleased at having gotten his way. There really wasn’t room for both of them unless they both lay on their sides or one on top of the other, and even then it was a tight fit. It was warm, though, more so with both blankets and Tony pressed flush against his front, and it was still more comfortable than the floor and _eons_ more comfortable than sleeping outside, so Steve just took a moment to adjust, slipping a leg between Tony’s and wrapping an arm around his back, and let the warm, steady heartbeat beneath his hand lull him to sleep.

 

Tony woke again to the front door slamming.

The first thing he noticed was that it wasn’t near as warm as it had been when he’d fallen asleep. He forced down the _completely irrational_ spike of panic when he realized that Steve wasn’t in bed anymore, and rolled himself up. The attic door was still open and Steve in plain sight through the hole in the floor. Tony dropped down to sit on the edge of the trapdoor, letting both feet hang through the open hole.

“You made breakfast?” Tony asked. He couldn’t keep the bewildered smirk off his face. Steve glanced up at him, caught one look of his expression, and rolled his eyes.

“It was the least we could do,” he said. Their host muttered her agreement—Tony really did like her, she had spunk—but he couldn’t resist the temptation to tease. He dropped through the hole without unrolling the ladder, feet thudding loudly on the floor. He quickly shut the door behind him, remembering their host’s comment about conserving heat.

“You’d make a lovely housewife,” Tony said.

“Oh, shut up,” Steve said. Purely out of defiance, he poured Tony’s breakfast back into the pot, handing him the empty bowl. Tony sneered, a smile threatening to ruin the expression, and served himself, taking the only empty chair in retaliation.

“Will you tell us a story?” Katya asked suddenly. Judging by the way she was playing with her food more than she was eating it, she had finished eating and was looking for something new to distract her.

“Uh,” Tony said intelligently. “What kind of story?”

“How’d you get locked up?” she asked. Tony tried to ignore the way Steve’s head swiveled at the question, giving her a polite smile, quelling her mother’s disapproving look, and hedged:

“That is a very long story,” he said, “and not nearly as interesting as you might think.” Tony turned pointedly back to his breakfast, focusing on cleaning the bowl before responding to further begging. “I bet _Steve_ has some _great_ stories,” he said. When she turned expectantly Steve’s way, Tony gave Steve a wink over her shoulder. Steve rolled his eyes, but quickly lost whatever train of thought he’d had when the boy from last night stomped inside. He kicked off his boots by the door, letting them bounce off the wall and leave little clumps of packed snow everywhere. His head was down, flipping through the notes he was holding. When he turned he froze, made a little startled noise, and shoved his hand into his pocket.

His mother followed Steve’s gaze, and almost immediately the humor bled from her expression. She flew across the kitchen to pull his hand into view, yanking the notes from her son’s grip. He yelped, grabbing for it before leveling her with a hard stare, and Tony didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked toward them, dread settling like a rock in his chest.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded. The woman waved the Rubles in front of him, a stack of notes thick enough to easily be worth fifty American dollars, maybe more. The boy didn’t respond, glaring hard at the wall over her shoulder. “ _Where?”_

She didn’t wait for an answer, taking his silence for what it was. There was only one way he could have gotten a stack of Rubles that quickly.

He’d sold them out.

“We need to go,” Steve said. Tony pushed away from the table, and Steve was one step ahead of him, ducking over to the window to peer past the curtain.

“Who did you tell?” Tony demanded. “Was it a woman?” He held up a hand to indicate height. “Red hair?” The teen raised his chin in defiance, the only response they’d gotten out of him, and Tony swore.

“We need to go,” Steve repeated. Tony was quickly pulling on his coats, and he tossed Steve’s over to him before he pulled on his boots. After a night by the stove they were dry, thank god, and Tony dressed as quickly as he could manage.

“Wait!” Their host pushed her son behind her, though it was hard to tell whether she was shielding him or pushing him aside. She glanced apologetically back at him— _the former_ , Steve’s mind supplied—and tried to press the money into Steve’s palm. “Please, take it. He doesn’t understand.”

“You’ve done plenty. More than enough,” Steve said. He pushed it back into her hands, and the sincerity in his voice halted any scalding comments Tony may have had. “You have children to feed.”

“Steve!” Tony insisted instead, low and urgent. Steve dropped the curtain back in place and moved toward the back door.

They broke into the clearing, keeping the house safely between them and the guards converging on their host’s front door. It was still black as pitch, the workday starting long before the sun rose this deep into the winter, and Tony prayed that it would be enough to continue to avoid the guards. Steve had the same idea, aiming for where the trees were thickest and therefore the most shadowed. Their tracks were stark in the snow, but this side of the woods were well-traveled by the family in their search for firewood and the like, so their footprints blended in with the rest of them, hopefully well enough to be completely indiscernible.

They would have to be.

Steve ran on for several more yards. His strides were slightly longer and Tony struggled to keep up with him, pressing after as fast as he could. Steve slowed, eyeing the snow beneath him, and the tracks there.

“What are you doing? Keep going!” Tony hissed, trying to shove him onward, and Steve pushed him back, steering him off to the side.

“It’s not enough. We can’t outrun them—they’re too close, and once our tracks aren’t mixed in with the rest of them anymore they will find them, and then it’s only a matter of time,” Steve whispered. He held his breath, straining to hear anyone approaching in the darkness.

“So what do we do?” Tony hissed. Steve glanced around, at a loss for a moment, then stilled.

“Climb,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Climb!” Steve pushed Tony back toward the nearest tree, cupped his hands together to give him a boost. Tony growled in irritation but obeyed, allowing Steve to hoist him up. The lowest branch the tree held was nearly an entire head above him, and Tony struggled to pull himself up. He swung a leg over the side, wrapping his legs together around the branch as he reached down to take Steve’s hand.

There was no way he would should have been able to make it up without a boost, but somehow between Tony helping and Steve’s ridiculous upper arm strength the two managed it, pausing to catch their breath for only a split moment before breaking apart to climb higher.

 _This is a horrible, dangerous idea_ , Tony couldn’t help but think as he climbed, keeping an eye on the ground in an attempt to spot the guards approaching. The sixth branch up was thick, forked fairly close to the trunk, and high enough above the ground to be hidden by the tree’s dense branches. It was certainly sturdy enough to sit two people—and hopefully hide them from view—and Steve pressed himself as close to the tree as possible, pulling Tony down into his lap. He mirrored Steve, pressing as far back as he could, and no sooner had they settled into their perch than the sound of someone’s approach reached them.

One set of footsteps crunched hollowly in the snow, echoing, lonely between the trees. The steps were slow, deliberate, and Tony knew before he could see her shock of red hair against the snow that the Black Widow had come.

She was a beautiful woman, even from a distance, but the darkness concealed her face enough that he could not see her expression. She surveyed the ground, scanning through the numerous prints there. And while theirs looked no different than the ones before them, Tony was sure he saw her hesitate when she passed by theirs. Her gaze followed them, almost lazily, toward the tree and then upward, expression remaining carefully passive.

Tony felt his blood run cold, gripped Steve even tighter around the wrist.

_She was staring directly at them._

There was no way they were getting out of this. For a moment it felt as though she held his gaze, though he didn’t dare make a sound, as though the oppressive silence would fool her into disbelieving her eyes. For a long moment she stood stock still in the snow, gaze never wavering, and then just as quickly as she’d come another guard lumbered into the clearing, cursing vehemently in Russian, and her head snapped around quickly to regard him.

She exchanged a few, terse words with him, before sending him off into the trees with a dismissive gesture he certainly didn’t appreciate. Then, with one flick of her gaze back toward the tree, she vanished after him, footsteps quietly fading into the dark.

Tony let out a shuddery breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding, and Steve did the same beneath him. He waited several minutes to be sure they wouldn’t be returning, but the forest remained blissfully quiet. He turned, nudging Steve before whispering, very quietly, in his ear.

“She saw us,” Tony said. Steve was staring long and hard at the spot where she had been standing, nodded hesitantly.

“She definitely looked right at us…but…if she saw us—”

“—why did she let us go? I don’t know. But she _saw us_ , Steve, she looked me right in the eye,” Tony insisted. Steve nodded obligingly, not sure what to believe.

“I think… you must have imagined it,” Steve said finally. “Either way, let’s not waste it.” Steve carefully extracted himself from behind Tony. “Stay here. I’m going to go check that the coast is clear,” he ordered.

“Are you crazy? There’s guards everywhere.” Tony grabbed him by the front of the coat. “You can’t…”

Steve pulled him into a quick kiss to silence him. He pulled back after a moment, resting their foreheads together as he pried Tony’s fingers from his jacket. “They know we're nearby. It's not safe here. I’m just gonna get a look,” Steve said. “Be right back.”

Tony made an attempt to protest, but Steve quickly shut him down, hauling a leg over the side of the limb to lower himself down. He watched Steve drop to the ground quietly, hardly making any sound at all before he crept silently away, out of Tony’s line of sight.

And then he was waiting.

Tony counted the passing minutes in his head, growing increasingly worried with each one. After the first five, he was twisting his hands together uselessly. By ten, he was sick with worry. At fifteen, he was sure he’d somehow miscounted, because Steve wouldn’t be gone this long, there was no reason for it unless…unless something had happened. It took less than a minute after that revelation for him to give up his post and climb down. He trailed as silently as he could in the direction he’d seen Steve take, straining to see his blue coat in the darkness.

Tony nearly didn’t see him, with his torso flattened against a tree trunk next to a little clearing. He almost called out to him in relief, just glad to see that Steve was okay, before he thought better of it. Tony peered past Steve’s hiding place at the group gathered in the open space—several guards, all standing together listening to the Widow. He couldn’t make out what they were saying but Steve obviously could, listening intently. He tried to sneak a little closer, to within earshot.

It was a mistake. A twig snapped beneath his boot, blown loose by the storm and buried beneath a dusting of snow. It made one tiny snap in the darkness, but it sounded like cannon fire to his ears. All heads in the clearing snapped around toward him, and he had exactly enough time to mentally curse his luck before Steve spooked, not realizing what had drawn their attention, and bolted into the trees.

Tony tore after him, as fast as he could manage through the snow, trying not to lose him in the darkness. He couldn’t have been more than a few steps behind, close enough to overtake him if the soldier’s legs weren’t so long and the snow was more packed down on this end of the clearing. He could hear the guards screaming after him, but he didn’t look back.

He strained his eyes for a glimpse of Steve ahead of him, tried to follow the trail through the snow, but this thick into the trees he could hardly make them out in the dark. He hurdled over a fallen tree—probably knocked over during the blizzard, attention torn between watching his footing, watching for Steve, and he couldn’t hear anything but his own boots crunching in the snow.

Tony made his way to the top of the ridge in front of him, paused, kept running along the crest of it. He didn’t know which direction Steve had taken. Hoped he’s picked the right one.

Suddenly, someone struck him on the back of the thigh; pressure hard enough to knock him forward. He let out a little strangled noise of surprise and stumbled. Blind fear gripped him, because he should have heard someone coming up behind him, should have heard them shouting or running or….The shouting was still behind him, louder now, and a moment after he felt something strike his thigh he heard the crack of a gunshot from the trees behind him—maybe they were aiming for him, maybe for his attacker, he didn’t know.

It didn’t register, not at first, and so Tony reeled, trying to find his aggressor, but he saw no one. He caught a good glimpse of the empty clearing before the adrenaline in his system failed him. Red-hot pain shot through him, spiking out from where he’d been struck on the leg. His vision tunneled and he lost his balance, his leg no longer willing to support his weight.

At some point he must have hit the uneven ground and slid over the edge, because when his sight cleared he was lying in the snow halfway down the embankment. He couldn’t think, it hurt so much, and he pressed a hand over the spot, confused, disoriented; only after his hand came back stained red did he remember the crack of the rifle.

He’d been shot.

His blood oozed rivulets through his fingers, dripping Rorschach patterns into the snow, made sluggish by the cold.

He’d been shot, and Steve was still running, still thinking that Tony was waiting for him, safely hidden. Which was for the best, really. This kind of distraction would lower his chances of getting away clean immensely—he’d certainly slow the guards down, when they found him. Tony would be caught, bleeding out into the snow bank, and Steve could just keep running on the faith that Tony was following, maybe even circle around to where they’d been hiding in the trees. He wouldn’t even notice Tony was gone until he’d left them all far, far behind.

Tony thought, with a striking sense of reality, that he really, _really_ didn’t want to die alone.

It was stupid, of course. Everyone died alone. He’d been ready for that, accepted it even, back at Izhma. He’d _known_ he was going to die. But now…this was different. Somehow more real, as though all that time spent inside the camp was just a nightmare he’d been waiting for someone to wake him from, and now that he’d been outside, had time to think that maybe they might make it, had Steve…

Steve.

He clenched his teeth and tried to pull himself up to his knees. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained hiss, and it was all he could do to keep upright and conscious, to pull in air. He was exhausted, and what a great time to realize that. Snow and rock cascaded down from the top of the embankment, collecting more as they fell, and Tony could just make out the sounds of angry voices shouting to each other. They were coming for him.

Even if they were just firing blindly, even if they hadn’t seen him get hit, there was so much blood, even in the darkness, there was no way they wouldn’t see the line of it stark against the snow, leading them right to him. He didn’t want to die here, he didn’t want to die at all, but he certainly didn’t want to die _here_ , alone in the snow—

He was jerked back along the embankment, through the snow and out of the guards’ immediate line of sight, and one hand clamped tightly over his mouth just in time to keep him from screaming, in pain or surprise. The motion made him dizzy, it made him sick, and Tony forced the feeling down. He tried feebly to struggle, to pry the hands off, anything.

“Shhh. Tony, it’s all right,” Steve said urgently. All the fight went out of him at once, as relief washed over him, and he let his head drop back against Steve’s shoulder. Steve slowly removed the hand from his mouth, mumbled a quiet “sorry” and pressed down on the wound in his leg hard enough to draw a pained hiss.

“What happened?” he demanded. “I said stay.”

“My fault.” Tony frowned. Except that it _wasn’t_ really—not entirely, anyway—because Steve hadn’t come back like he’d said he would.

“Not your fault, Tony,” Steve said. Tony hummed in agreement, paused, then shook his head. “You—”

Tony gripped Steve’s sleeve, cutting him off with an urgent noise. “I broke a twig,” he said.

Steve just shushed him, not sure what he meant. He pulled off a glove to stop the blood flow, drawing a whine from Tony while Steve mumbled platitudes and apologies. He was trembling, and Tony wondered if that was from the pain of if he was going into shock. He tried to focus on Steve’s words, and not the pain or the sound of shouting—wind?—in the distance. He drew a shaky breath.

Tony groaned before a thought struck him, and he made a pained noise as he leaned up, scrabbling at his boot. Steve tried to bat his hand away, but Tony just pulled off his glove with his teeth so that he could reach into his boot. He made a disappointed, panicked noise when he pulled his hand back, and Steve was still trying to shush him, shooting worried glances up the embankment, when he finally realized what it was.

“S’ruined,” Tony said, staring at the bloodstained sketch. Steve plucked it from his hand and flicked the drawing into the snow, then grabbed his hand, forcing the glove back on.

“I’ll make you a new one,” he promised. “Now I need you to be quiet for me.”

More rocks were falling now, he could hear them clicking against the stones around them and see the little curls of snow collecting mass as they rolled. The guards must be looking for them down the embankment. It was only a matter of time before they saw the blood, or followed the path of disturbed snow to catch them both. He thought he should warn Steve about this, but nothing was working properly—he was so cold—and it was all he could do to stay awake.

“We’re gonna try and move, okay?” Steve whispered. “See those rocks over there?”

“Steve…” he managed. But the soldier wasn’t looking at him, just kept one hand pressed firmly into Tony’s thigh as he cautiously peeked from behind their cover to scan the ridge for guards. Steve attempted a comforting smile, and he could see the worry and the fear underneath, but he didn’t say anything. Just accepted Steve’s hand when he offered it to him, and let his eyes slip shut… just for a minute… because Steve was an almost warm presence over him, he was so, so tired…

 

Like a vision or a dream, all clouded up with too much fog: Steve tearing the lining from his own jacket to bandage Tony’s bleeding leg, mumbling platitudes and pretending nothing was wrong. Steve, lifting him up, and setting him gently onto the lumpy, but surprisingly not cold, ground.

_“Just a few more days, and we’ll get you to a hospital. A good one. American or, hell, even French—” Steve was murmuring, over and over, and Tony wasn’t entirely sure that he knew Tony was awake. He wanted to tell him not to bother. That Steve was much too good for him, that he didn’t need to do this. But he couldn’t find the words._

_“I’m slowing you down. Just…it’s okay, Steve…”_

 

The sky was growing lighter now. It took Tony much too long to realize, through the haze, that the white stretch in front of him was the sky, and not the ground, but he would blame that on the face that he had been shot, and he was moving, and all he really wanted was to _go back to sleep—_

Steve was dragging him through the snow on some kind of stupid sled that Tony could have made a million times better. He was…well, he wasn’t _warm_ , but it was a very near thing, bundled in jackets. There was a subtle buzz under his skin, probably the start of a fever, which Tony tried very hard to ignore. Steve’s hands were red—both of them—caked with dried blood. He wondered whose. It was probably his. Although a large part of him—all of him, actually—hoped it belonged to the guards.

He wanted to say something, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Tony shifted, trying to free an arm from the jacket bundled around his front, and immediately a hot, itching _burn_ flared from his leg. Tony groaned—how had he not noticed it before, god—and Steve jerked.

He groaned again, but at least he’d gotten Steve’s attention and he was kneeling beside him in an instant. Tony tried to sit up, and when Steve tried to push him back, he just growled and tried again, because damn it, he wasn’t going to do this right now. Eventually, Steve switched to helping him up, hovering like he was afraid he’d break, and Tony let him lean him against a shoulder, because staying upright was a lot of effort.

“Whose blood is that?” Tony watched the little crease of worry between Steve’s eyes grow deeper, and wondered if maybe that was the wrong question to ask.

“It’s yours, Tony.”

“Oh.” He touched a hand to Tony’s forehead, checking for fever, and Tony tried not to flinch away from the icy touch. He didn’t look happy. “I’m okay.” He definitely wasn’t. Steve knew that. He gently laid him back, and Tony went without protest.

“I know.” He put a hand through Tony’s hair, and Tony sighed, because even if it was icy cold without a glove to warm him, it felt nice, and he closed his eyes, just for a moment…

 

He was on fire. Too warm, pressed along his back and held tight against him like a second skin, restricting. He tried to pull at it, find some reprieve, but his hands wouldn’t move right. He could hear Steve mumbling but it didn’t make any sense, just noises without form or meaning. 

A jolt of panic shot through him, and he groaned. “Leggo, ‘m sick,” he said, but the arms only held him tighter. “Gotta get ‘n the sick list. It fills up quick…it, I gotta…” Steve shushed him, a breath of hot air against his neck, and whispered something else. 

Tony thought that, maybe, if he could just remember what he was doing here, he could make himself understand. 

 

 

“Hey. You with me this time?” Tony had a vague memory of talking to Steve, earlier, but he couldn’t be sure. It all felt like a dream, flashes of scenes coming back in striking clarity while others slogging into his mind as though through a thick fog.

“I don’t know.”

 

 

The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of boots in old, icy snow was what finally pulled Tony back again.

Tony wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, or for how long, although he suspected it was longer than Steve let on. Steve looked much too happy to see him awake. His face, red and wind burned, brightened, just slightly and Tony tried for a smile, chest aching for him to stay that way.

“Hmm…Watch out for rivers,” he mumbled. Steve laughed, and it was goddamn beautiful.

 

 

Tony remembered the cold, and the short, jerking movements that made the pain almost unbearable. 

“It hurts.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Only a moment, in and out like a dream, and then he was slipping back again. 

 

 

“We’re almost home.” 

“Leave me…” 

Steve didn’t even bother to reply.

 

 

He remembered realizing that he was going to die.

And he remembered deciding: good riddance.

 

 

“Y’re drawin’s in my boot,” Tony mumbled once, so quiet Steve barely heard him. Steve hummed in agreement, just happy to keep Tony talking.

“I know. We saw that earlier, remember?”

“s’ruined,” he whined.

“It’s okay. I told you, I’ll draw you a new one Tony. Don’t worry about it.” Steve replied, pulling a little harder, a little faster.

“How ‘bout a nude?” he asked. There was a hint of a smile in his voice, and Steve couldn’t help but chuckle a little bit.

“Sure. I’ll draw you ten.”

 

 

“Steve—”

“Tony, _stop_! For the millionth time, I’m not leaving you,” Steve bit out, the determination in his voice somewhat diminished by the exhaustion underneath.

“No, I…I know this place.” Tony breathed, barely above a whisper, but Steve heard, stilled all the same.

 

 

It was warm. Really, truly, warm, not the ugly, flushed feeling of fever. He could hardly remember the feeling, after so long with Steve dragging him through the snow. When he opened his eyes, he was lying in a bed of blankets laid out in front of a corn cob stove. He tried to remember where he was, how he’d gotten there, but nothing came to him.

“Shhh…” Tony turned toward the noise, and blinked at the unfamiliar face of an old man staring back at him. “You are feverish,” he said. “Your friend was right to bring you here. Had he not…” He tutted, poking disinterestedly at the embers in the stove. They had nearly burned out, but Tony was still warmer than he’d been in an eternity, so he didn’t complain.

“—’s Steve?” he tried. Tony shook his head to try and clear away the fog. He got overwhelming, roiling nausea instead, and when it had subsided, he found that the old man was talking to him.

“—to collect kindling. From the sounds of things, you’ll be moving along quickly enough.” His back was turned, Tony couldn’t really tell what he was doing. He didn’t much care, either. He was tired and warm, and wanted nothing more than to fall back into blissful sleep.

“Where are we?” Tony mumbled.

“Czechoslovakia.” When Tony perked up at the admission, he smiled. “My name is Ho Yinsen. I knew your mother.” He turned back to look at Tony. “I did not expect you to remember me. You were very young. But you seemed to remember this place. Luckily your friend gave some merit to your delirious ramblings, or you may not have found your way here at all.” Yinsen tutted again, and came to sit beside Tony. A cold rush of air fell over him when he pulled the blankets back, and Tony whined.

“Just checking your bandage,” he said. “I removed the bullet, but it was already infected. I did what I could, but the best thing for you would be to rest.” He turned toward the doorway, listening, and then disappeared out of Tony’s field of vision. The door opened and shut an instant later, but any semblance of warmth in the room had been whisked out into the night the moment the door opened.

“Tony?” Steve asked. He set the pile of tinder against the stove, and Yinsen moved in behind him to stoke the fire immediately. Tony tried to sit up, but Steve urged him back. Which was fine, really, because his head was still swimming.

“What happened?” Tony asked.

“You got shot,” Steve answered. Tony laughed, shallow and breathless as it was, and Steve put a hand on his chest to steady him.

“I got that part,” Tony said. “How much longer?” Steve looked uneasy at that, but answered,

“When you’re ready… a few days. Maybe less.” Tony hummed, but didn’t suggest that he was ready now. He couldn’t stand to be so close, but not move forward—and Steve probably felt the same—but he knew the suggestion to leave wouldn’t go over well. Steve sat down against the wall beside him, and didn’t hesitate to drag his fingers through Tony’s messy hair. “Of course, you had to go and be difficult, getting yourself shot,” he teased.

Tony hummed, too tired to put any real effort into a retort. He was… supremely comfortable. And Yinsen must have given him something, because his leg barely hurt at all. He fell asleep almost immediately, and remembered very little of the next few hours after that, other than a solid warmth at his side.

 

It seemed liked he’d only just blinked his eyes when someone was shaking him awake. He tried to make a token protest, but a hand slipped over his mouth to silence him. Tony’s eyes flew open, but it was only Steve. Steve, who urged him up silently, and started to bundle him into a jacket. The room was stingingly cold compared to the comfort of his makeshift bed, and it took him longer than it should have to realize that was because the door was open.

He almost asked why, when the sound of voices carrying from the other room—just out of view—finally made their way through the cloud of his mind. Steve was helping him up—nearly carrying him—when Tony tuned in to their conversation.

“—penalty for harboring escaped—” He didn’t hear the rest of the threat as Steve slipped them as quietly as possible out the back. His leg burned with every half-step, but Steve wouldn’t give him a moment to collect himself, simply pulled him down the back step and toward the cover of the trees.

He didn’t stop for the loud crack behind them, either, but Tony flinched. He craned his neck back in time to see a shadow cross the window in the house before they disappeared behind the trees.

He wasn’t sure how far they’d gone before the searing hot pain in his leg became too much, and Tony had to stop, _god he had to, because—_

“Tony, keep moving,” Steve urged. He shifted Tony on his shoulder, taking more of his weight, but it didn’t help him. “Come on.”

“Leave me here,” he pleaded. Tony clutched at his arm, tugging, begging. “Please.”

“For God’s sake, Tony, no.” Steve said.

“Steve, I _can’t_ —”

“Just—” Another crack, and whatever Steve had been about to say died in his throat. Tony didn’t care. He didn’t care one bit, because Steve was pulling them down, and he didn’t have to stand anymore, _thank god, he didn’t think he could._

Tony dry heaved into the snow; the world was spinning and everything _hurt_. His head was pounding in his ears, a solid thud-thud that grew louder with every beat. Steve’s arm tightened on his shoulder, and when he glanced up, there were two figures on the hillside tall and black against the snow.

“Run,” Tony mumbled, but it was too late now, two more figures had joined them and were making their way down the slope, slow as they pleased. Tony could see their uniforms from here, and even without them, he could see that they marched like soldiers.

“Stupid pigs,” the first snapped. They circled around them, carefully keeping their distance. He drew a sidearm, flicking the chamber open and shut. When he raised the pistol, aimed it at Tony’s head, he wasn’t surprised. They wouldn’t want to drag him back, or keep him in the infirmary until he could go back to work. It’d be easier to shoot him here and save the trouble. And he didn’t want to go back. He was almost relieved. Almost.

“Don’t—” Steve said. Tony felt his heart clench at the rawness in his voice, tried to shush him, tell him it was okay, but the soldier ignored him. “We’ll go with you, I’ll carry him, please don’t—”

Tony still couldn’t watch him pull the trigger, flinched when he heard the gunshot and felt the wet splatter on his cheek. And then the arm on his shoulder slackened, and Tony glanced back, dazed, to see Steve’s slump into the snow.

“Steve—” He grabbed he jacket, rolling him over, and the snow was almost black beneath him. Steve’s eyes were closed. He was stunned, his hands moving without permission to press feebly at the wound before he even comprehended what had happened. The shocked silence was absolute, even the wind sounded muted to his ears, until finally it was broken by something like a sob. Tears stung his eyes, made worse by the freezing wind, and all Tony could think was god no, this wasn’t fair—

“Shit—ah, God, ’m not supposed to watch you die, you piece of shit,” he said. Tony choked back a sob as a little line of red bubbled up at the corner of Steve’s mouth, threatening to spill over. He knew it was selfish but—“No, fuck, _please_!”—why didn’t they shoot him first?

The guard muttered something, cocked his gun and raised it again. Tony didn’t care. Blood seeped between his fingers, pooling in the lines between his knuckles and running down the sides.

The second gunshot was different, and Tony only had long enough to wonder why he wasn’t dead as well before the guard fell heavily into the snow. Tony blinked, grabbed Steve tighter and pulled him into his lap because _what else could he do_ while the other three guards shouted. A second guard fell before they thought to run for cover. They didn’t make it ten feet before someone sniped them from the tree line.

“You sons of bitches,” Tony mumbled. When a pair of soldiers emerged from the trees, making their way down to him, he tried to pull him away. He lashed out, anger rising in him, “ _You sons of bitches, why didn’t you get here sooner, why didn’t you—”_

“Mr. Stark, calm down, we—” a woman, hair a brilliant red, and…and, _Christ_ it was Widow. It took him a long moment to realize she was so difficult to understand because she was speaking English.

“— _save him, god damn it. Why didn’t you—you…”_ Tony barely registered the sting, but it was suddenly much harder to focus, and when the agent at his right, the one with the rifle, tried again to reason with him in soothing tones that did nothing to disguise the grim lines in his expression, Tony could see the syringe in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.” He pried Tony’s finger’s loose from their vice grip on Steve’s jacket. He tried to protest, managed at least a noise of protest, before they hushed him quiet and pulled Steve’s still warm body away from him, “It’s all right now. You’ve been though quite an ordeal…ere to help…” _No no no, Steve, no_ “…home.”

 

Tony tore into consciousness like a drowning man at the surface of a pool, pulling and thrashing at the hands on him, holding him down, forcing him under—

“—He’s awake.” There were mere hands on him, and Tony tried to push them away, but his arms felt like they were filled with sand. “Relax, please,” more hands, holding him down.

“—give you something to—Mr. Stark?”

“Steve?”

“He’s delirious.” _No I’m not._ He wanted to say, but his tongue felt like cotton. And already there was another sting, confusion washing over him. He’d only just broken the surface when he felt himself sinking again, the hands forcing him down, down—

 

The next time Tony came back to himself, it was slowly, ebbing in an out of nothingness until he suddenly blinked awake, groggy but aware.

Tony groaned, blinking into the darkness.

He raised a hand, intending to press it to his pounding skull, and instantly struck something solid. He groaned again, confused—what had happened, he couldn’t remember—and tried to shift. When he hit a barrier again, Tony paused, not quite understanding, but slowly realizing that something was wrong. He raised a shaky hand to feel out the wall, rough and uneven like wood, that came quickly to a corner, not four inches from his head. Tony pulled in a sharp breath, trying not to panic.

He raised his other hand, feeling along the walls, pushing against them and stretching his legs out below him. They struck the box almost immediately. Coffin.

Coffin. He was in a coffin.

Oh, god.

The night came back to him in flashes, pain, mostly and…

And Steve had been shot.

The wail escaped his lips on impulse, turning from grief to anger. He slammed his fists against the ceiling, screaming again, because Steve was dead and they thought he was too and _it was his fault_. God, it was his fault.

He screamed and kicked and punched the lid until his throat was sore and his knuckles bled and still he screamed, tears leaking from his eyes into the wood, because what did it matter? He couldn’t even—

The lid tore violently off, and both hands swiped empty air. Tony blinked into the light, suddenly caught off guard, and had barely cleared his vision when the woman who’d been hunting them, who’d saved him— _appearing like a vision, and a man, rifle over one shoulder, Mr. Stark, calm down, we_ —pulled back an fist and struck him in the face.

Tony’s head snapped back against the box with the force of it, and, stunned into silence, he had no trouble hearing what she had to say.

“Shut the fuck up, you’ll get us all shot,” she said curtly. The lid slammed shut again. Four resounding knocks—nails into wood, sealing him in—and then he heard, muffled: “we’ll get you out when the coast is clear. Don’t make me tranquilize you.”

Tony sucked in a heaving breath, and although he wasn’t certain why, he found himself listening to her. His chin throbbed—everything throbbed—but the longer he sat the more he realized that he could see, just barely, from the dim light leaking in through the sliver-like cracks in the lid.

And the longer he sat, the more acutely aware he became of the slight rocking, and the creak of the wheels in motion. They were moving. He didn’t think he could have been more confused, except for when they stopped, a few minutes later, for an unbearably long time, and Tony couldn’t make out any of the muffled noises.

Finally, they creaked forward again and, after many long, long moments, Tony saw the bar slot in between the box and lid. It was wrenched off with a _snap_ showering him in splinters and dust, and the same woman from before was standing above him, glaring.

“You’re a piece of work, Stark. What if we’d been crossing through a checkpoint when you started screaming?” She tossed the lid aside. “Get out, we’re clear.” Tony groaned, and sat up. The other man was kneeling further in the back of the truck, working at a second box with a crowbar. As soon as the lid popped, Tony choked a gasp, still fumbling to understand.

Steve frowned, brushing the dust out of his hair with one arm, keeping the other tucked carefully to his side. “Thanks, Buck,” he mumbled. Tony must have made some kind of noise because Steve turned to him then, breaking out into that stupid, earnest smile.

“Hey,” Steve said. “How’re you doing?” Tony felt an unexplainable anger rise in him, nearly throwing himself to his feet. The motion made his dizzy, and his leg throbbed, but Tony honestly didn’t care.

“How am _I—You_ were _dead_!” Steve looked startled.

“Shut up,” the agent from before snapped, but Tony ignored her.

“They shot you—you went down—and—”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, tapping the bandage on his shoulder. “Went into shock, that’s all. Hey.” When Tony didn’t respond, he pressed on. “ _Hey_.” Tony glanced over, and Steve had his good arm stretched out to him. “Help me up.” Tony realized his hands were shaking, fists clenched so tightly his fingers creaked when he forced them to relax.

He took a deep breath, stepping over to stand beside his coffin— _His coffin Jesus Christ_ —and helped ease him to his feet. Steve put an arm around his shoulder for balance, although Tony suspected it was more for subtle comfort, and let Tony lean him against the wall. Tony didn’t give a God damn, and sat down right beside him, because _fuck subtlety very much, his leg was throbbing and so was his face—_

Steve squeeze his shoulder once, tightly, before pulling back to lean against the wall with a pained sigh. His head hit the wall with a light thump, eyes trained on Tony.

“Your hands are bleeding.” Tony flexed his fingers, and they stung, but he didn’t know what to say. when it didn’t seem like Tony would be answering, Widow cocked her head to the side.

“He punched the box,” she said. Not only did she sound unimpressed, she sounded downright angry with him.

“And then Natasha punched _him_ ,” the other agent said. Tony thought he vaguely recognized him from last night—was it even last night?—but he couldn’t be sure.

“That your girl, Bucky?” Steve asked after a long minute. Bucky grinned, but he was looking at her out the corner of his eye like he was reluctant to answer.

“Yep,” he said.

“Well tell your girl not to hit my guy,” Steve mumbled back. Tony almost gaped at how casually he’d given them away there, but Bucky was laughing and Natasha rolling her eyes.

“Tell her yourself!” Bucky crowed. "I know better."

Steve grinned again, and Tony was suddenly struck with the urge to kiss those lips, to run his hands through his hair and make sure he was okay. Really, truly, okay.

“Why didn’t the train come?” Tony asked suddenly. He wasn’t even sure why he’d remembered it, but suddenly he had to know. Natasha looked mildly annoyed, but the other agent looked absolutely furious when he answered,

“The plan fell through. Storm stopped it cold.” Natasha brushed a hand over Bucky’s shoulder, and the tension there released in a wave.

“Unavoidable,” she reminded him. He scoffed at that. “I was removed from my assignment to be certain you two found your way back safely.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, the only indication that she was amused, “You didn’t need much help.” She paused, eyeing them for a moment.

“We should head up front,” Natasha decided, “check in.” She turned to glance at Tony. “And I’d imagine the Director would be interested in those plans of yours.” She nodded at his pocket. “If you ever felt like sharing. Come on, James.”

When Bucky didn’t respond, she sighed. “Bucky,” Natasha said, a little too sharply. “Come on.”

“Nah, I’m gonna talk to Steve for a bit,” he said. Tony saw her expression shift—some strange mixture of exasperation and fondness. Steve just raised an eyebrow, his expression the picture of patience.

“Buck,” Steve prompted. “Give us a minute?” Bucky glanced between them, and then back to Natasha. All at once, the confusion disappeared.

“Oh,” he laughed, and Natasha rolled her eyes. “ _O_ _h_ , yep, I’ll just, yep—” He crawled out of the back, Natasha close behind him.

“I’ll make sure no one bothers you,” she said, pulling the canvas shut behind them.

“Sorry,” Steve said. Tony just snorted in response, crawling closer and giving in to the temptation to press a kiss into his shoulder, just above the bandage. Steve rested a hand carefully on his leg, like he was afraid he would break, but Tony couldn’t really blame him. All he really wanted to do was pull off every piece of Steve’s clothing and check the damage himself (and possibly more, after that) so he could understand the sentiment. He settled for covering Steve’s hand with his own.

“Your leg was infected,” Steve said. “Didn’t know if you were gonna make it.”

“M’okay,” Tony said, because he didn’t really know how to respond otherwise. “I don’t really remember—but I’m okay.”

“Good,” Steve breathed. He leaned a little closer, and Tony wrapped an arm around him back. Steve breathed out a wheezy laugh when Tony tried to scoot closer, but it sounded like it hurt so Tony stilled. Steve was quiet for a long moment, and then.

“I’m not really fit for active duty anymore,” he said slowly. “Scarring, on the lungs. So they’re discharging me. Officially, I never left base, so no purple heart but… I really don’t give a shit.” He gave Tony a crooked grin that Tony found himself returning without a thought. He sobered after a moment, touching Steve’s arm lightly.

“Is that okay?” Steve looked startled for a moment, but Tony knew he liked being a soldier, and that that was what he identified as the most. Eventually the expression turned pensive, and Tony did his best not to squirm in anticipation of an answer.

“A year ago… no, it wouldn’t be,” he said eventually. “But now? I’m okay.” Tony rubbed his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand, considering. Clearly, he was silent for a little too long, because Steve nudged him, gently, looking curious. Tony hesitated, cleared his throat.

“...You know, if Howard’s dead…” Tony began, “technically, it all belongs to me now.” Tony turned to gauge his reaction, but he got absolutely nothing.

“Lucky man.” Steve’s expression was impassive and sincere, and, well, Tony couldn’t quite tell, but he got the vague impression that he was being teased.

“Including the mansion,” Tony continued unperturbed. “It’s huge. Too big for one person.”

“You’ll have to hire a butler,” Steve suggested innocently. Now Tony _knew_ he was teasing him. A little flicker of warmth lit in his chest at the thought, and what it implied. Tony turned his nose into Steve’s neck, grinning, balled his fists in the back of Steve’s shirt.

“Good idea,” he said, and then, more quietly. “Come back with me, Steve?”

“Of course I will.” Steve laced a hand through Tony’s hair, toying with the shortest strands, and Tony hummed at the sensation. “You don’t even have to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit longer, on account of it being the last (for this fic, anyway). Thank you all for reading!
> 
> [And again, Art is courtesty of LP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/836595), so if you like her work go let he know :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for horizon_labs and iron_amurrica's Come the Winter (Come the Storm)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/836595) by [LePeru (Nizah)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nizah/pseuds/LePeru)




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